


god only knows

by gonegirlgang



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 50,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25724920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonegirlgang/pseuds/gonegirlgang
Summary: No matter how much space Quinn has in her heart for Jesus and His scriptures of patience, it’s no match for roommate Santana Lopez, self-proclaimed school slut with a penchant for pushing buttons.
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 92
Kudos: 292





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> rest easy, rest sweet, rest in love, naya rivera.

Quinn meets Santana Lopez—sophomore, new roommate at UCLA—a full eight days after spring quarter begins.

She’s been suspiciously truant all through move-in week. Quinn would think she’s been assigned a single, but her roommate has left traces of inhabitance in their shared space despite her lack of physical presence. Such indications include, but are not limited to: broken down cardboard boxes littering the floor, empty beer bottles and half-eaten Cup Noodles that skunk up the room, and an ever-accumulating pile of clothes strewn across her roommate’s desk chair.

So Quinn asks around, gathering intel in her absence. The reactions of her peers range from awe to terror to disgust, because it seems everyone (and Quinn means _everyone_ ) has an opinion on her roommate. She’s assaulted with tall tales of a Trust Fund Baby/VIP Club Member/Mega Bitch, and most notably a filthy, filthy mouth that seems to be working through the university one unsuspecting undergrad at a time.

* * *

Over a week of the ever-evolving heap of dirty laundry has gone by and it’s safe to say Quinn’s livid. It’s not OCD—it’s _not_. She enjoys a tidy space, all right? By the third time Quinn is nearly impaled on a ridiculously high-heeled shoe, she drinks five Yerba Mates in order to stay awake and face her AWOL roommate. This girl has to come in sooner or later, she thinks. And this time she'll be ready.

If there’s one thing Quinn can do well, it’s confrontation.

But when she finally staggers in at 5:52 a.m. smelling like watered-down frat beer and weed with a pair of red-soled ankle boots dangling from her fingertips, blame gets lodged in Quinn’s throat. She was foolishly under the impression that said roommate was just as horrendous as their current living situation.

Santana Lopez is anything but.

She’s honestly gorgeous, all bronzed skin and preposterously long legs and shiny shampoo commercial hair. Quinn has to shut her lids and whisper a rapid Our Father to the sky because she should absolutely not be thinking of her roommate—her _female_ roommate—this way. She says sorry to God too, grumbling something about a purely aesthetic appreciation of the feminine physique.

Inebriated, admittedly beautiful eyes squint at her when Quinn finally opens her own.

“Hey, stranger. I’m Santana, your roommate, I guess. Unless you’re one of those psycho stalkers, which would explain why you’re sitting alone in the dark. But you don’t look like a stalker, so… nice to meet you.” She drops the boots and extends her hand for a shake, an irritating smile crossing her features. Even her teeth are perfect.

Quinn almost forgets why she was up in the first place until a thrum of caffeine flings her back to the present. She steels her expression, bringing her lips together in a rigid line. “I know who you are,” she disclaims, lacing her voice with as much decorum as possible after that abnormal lapse in judgement.

The outstretched arm is quickly retracted and Santana frowns. “Yo, chill. I’m gonna crash over here.” She hooks her thumb over to the unmade bed and begins to unzip her dress, swaying a bit as she does so. “Don’t mind me.”

“What—what do you think you’re doing?” Quinn squeaks, slapping a hand over her eyes.

“I’m changing. Don’t know how they do it in whatever hick town you’re so obviously from, but in LA, people don’t wear this shit to bed.”

A few seconds of drawers opening and shutting, followed by a dull thud and a slurred, “That’s gonna bruise,” has Quinn peeking through the space between her fingers.

Christ, is that a negligee? People in Ohio don’t wear those to bed either. But at least her roommate’s moderately clothed now, even if the fabric is so sheer it’s virtually transparent, and she lowers her hand.

“You gonna keep checking me out or can I sleep now?”

“I am not checking you out,” Quinn scoffs, “and you do not get to sleep right now.”

Santana clutches at her chest in mock anguish. “You wound me.”

“The room looks like the destruction path of a category five hurricane, so you need to do your part in keeping it somewhat habitable.” Quinn gestures to the pile on the chair, threatening to topple if even a single sock is added, and then to the heel on the floor. “Take these, for instance. You need to put these away. It’s only a matter of time until I’m rushed to the emergency room because I’ve been skewered by this death contraption you call a shoe. Which I would bill you for. Obviously.”

“Right, yeah, obviously,” Santana grunts, flopping face first onto the mattress.

“Are you even listening to me? Your inability to keep things clean is tantamount to reckless endangerment.”

“Tell you what, princess.” Her words are muffled by the pillow. “If you stop ragging on me, I’ll disinfect from top to bottom in the morning. You’re talking like, way too many words, and I’m too fucked up for it.”

Quinn wants to yell that it’s technically already morning and demand that Santana do so right this instant, but her roommate’s drunken snoring rings through the quiet room. She’s left opening and closing her mouth like a pathetic fish until the buzz in her body subsides and she crawls under the covers, the adrenaline crash sending her into a fitful slumber.

* * *

True to Santana’s word, the space is miraculously spotless when Quinn awakens. She’s momentarily afraid she’s been roofied, which is a completely rational phobia, and transported to a strikingly similar dorm room. Except she doesn't feel drugged, just obscenely exhausted from the possibly poor decisions of both the multiple Yerba Mates and falling asleep as the sun rose. Still, she analyzes the situation. Green floral duvet? Check. Photos on the cork board? Check. Supplies laid neatly on her desk? Triple check.

Gone are the bottles and boxes and even the desk chair can be used as intended now. Santana’s also nowhere to be found (unsurprising), but there’s a yellow post-it stuck to Quinn’s headboard, a simple ‘ _happy now? - san_ ’ scribbled in messy half-cursive.

It’s so pristine that Quinn’s finally able to inspect her roommate’s side without fear of contracting a disease. Novels by bell hooks and Gloria Steinem and Audre Lorde line the shelves and she aptly deduces that her roommate is either a) incredibly invested in feminism or b) a women’s studies major. Quinn pauses her perusal when her fingers run across little notches in the side of the wood.

Four.

There are four parallel tick marks carved into the shelf and her brow furrows.

* * *

Santana brings someone back late that night, waking Quinn with noisy shushes and “you better shut up, the roommate’s a bitch” and apologies that dissolve into giggles.

Too drained to argue—it was supposed to be syllabus week not launch-straight-into-lecture week—Quinn throws the blanket over her face and shoves her earplugs in further.

* * *

The girl next door invites them both out to dinner on Tuesday night. She introduces herself as Mercedes Jones, second year music performance major, admitted diva. Quinn agrees immediately; Mercedes looks like exactly the kind of person she needs right now. Someone who doesn’t know anything about Lucy, someone easygoing, someone who is also wearing a cross and around her neck, though hers is much bigger and flashier.

While college is the best place to meet new people, it’s harder to do so if you’ve transferred in the middle of the year after everyone already has established friend groups. But Mercedes seems fun, open, and eager to expand her social circle. Quinn’s too, because apparently the boys from 402 and the girls from 426 are also coming.

“Sorry not sorry, got a hot date,” Santana says, brushing past, clutch in hand.

Two pairs of eyes initially follow her down, but more heads appear from doorways as she saunters across the hall.

Fuck her and her criminally short skirt.

Santana twirls around and blows them a cheeky kiss before descending down the staircase, the clicking of her ludicrous six-inch pumps (honestly, what is the point?) on concrete receding until there’s no sound at all. Aggravation builds in Quinn’s chest with every clack.

“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Mercedes asks as they walk towards the elevators. While Quinn knows the question is rhetorical, she can’t help but counter.

“She’s too fucking much is what she is. I’m convinced that she wore heels to spite me. She knows I hate them.”

“Aw, someone thinks highly of herself. Santana’s always in heels—I saw her last summer at this pool thing at Theta Xi and she still showed up in stilettos. Like, it’s so extra but I have to respect it. That’s dedication.”

“Whatever. She could’ve taken the elevator,” Quinn gripes.

Dinner turns out to be an oddly pleasant affair, regardless of the onslaught of Santana-related questions her neighbors throw at her. She understands what the guide was talking about during orientation now, how UCLA’s dining halls are some of the best in the country. There are four residential restaurants and six quick-service cafés, each catering to a different cuisine. Mercedes promises to bring Quinn to each one before the quarter’s up.

More inquiries bombard Quinn as she sits down with a second helping of honey glazed salmon. Things like: “Have you met anyone Santana’s brought back?” and “Does she actually carry a pocket knife around?” and “Is her mini-fridge really only stocked with tequila?”

Her appetite dissipates as quickly as the questions come and she pushes the plate away. Santana’s not even physically here and yet her presence seems to follow Quinn around like a ghost.

“Time out y’all, let the girl eat,” Mercedes says, sensing her discomfort.

Quinn mouths a small thank you and wills her hunger to return because she was quite looking forward to the damn salmon. But the color of the glaze looks excessively similar to the eyes of one aforementioned roommate and nope, definitely not hungry anymore. So she gives Mercedes a weak smile and picks at the fish (more like stabs her fork into its pink flesh), hopefully encouraging her to move the conversation along.

Thankfully, Mercedes gets the hint and launches into the subject of what everyone did over spring break. One of the boys from 402—Puck, if Quinn recalls correctly—starts yammering about the “smokin’ hot babes” in Cabo and their lack of inhibition, and his roommate, Finn, fist bumps him. Quinn takes note that their other roommate, Mike, doesn’t, and grimaces instead.

The girls of 426, Tina and Rachel, spent their ten days gallivanting around New York City, attending Broadway shows and eating cronuts and sightseeing. Rachel pulls out her phone and spends the next six minutes going through a ridiculous slideshow accompanied by her own vocals until Mercedes reaches to slap her phone out of her hands. It lands in a bowl of miso soup and the table falls silent.

The whole group watches as Rachel snatches it out of the bowl, absorbed by the steady trickle of soup that drips onto a napkin. Rachel casts Mercedes an unsuccessful glare, losing effect due to the tears that are welling in her lower lids. She’s about as ferocious as a teacup Yorkie. It’s kind of pathetic; Quinn mastered the art of the glare at a mere thirteen.

“You’re buying me a new one,” she barks (Yorkie, again), and stomps away. Tina follows suit, bowing out and calling after her.

“The Berry storm off. Classic.” Puck brings his fist up again but Finn leaves him hanging.

“Not cool, man,” Finn says, starting to collect empty plates.

Mike does the same, chiming in a “Yeah, so not cool”.

“Come on guys, I’m just fuckin’ around,” he protests as they disappear through the sliding doors. “All right well, I gotta fix this shit or Mike won’t let me play Call of Duty tonight. Excuse me, ladies.” He nods to both her and Mercedes.

“That was… riveting.”

“Yeah, sorry about them. They’re kind of a lot to deal with,” Mercedes replies, grabbing the rest of the dishes. Quinn stands to help and they make their way toward the drop-off area. “But they’re good people.”

“Have you guys known each other long?”

“Kinda. We all met last year. Except Tina, she’s a freshman. Speaking of, I feel like we would have noticed you before. Where’d you come from?”

Quinn wrinkles her nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry, you’re something else too. In a good way.”

“I transferred this quarter,” she says, hesitantly. Quinn's glad they've already bussed the table because there's no way she'd be able to hold onto plates with how her palms begin to sweat. She hopes Mercedes isn’t going to ask her why, but she's looking at her curiously so Quinn takes it upon herself to steer the discussion in a different route. “Anyway, what’s everyone studying?”

“Well, Rachel’s a theater major. Hence the dramatics.”

“I’m in theater as well,” Quinn replies, frowning as they walk back to the dorm. “We’re not all like that. I’m not like that.”

Mercedes laughs and nudges her in the shoulder. “No, you definitely aren’t. Berry’s one of a kind. Don’t tell her I said that though, her ego is through the roof. Don’t get me wrong, I love the girl, but in small, small doses.”

“And the others?”

“Tina’s double-majoring in Asian American studies and econ, Mike dances, I’m pretty sure Puck’s _still_ undeclared, and to this day, I have no idea what Finn’s doing here. He’s here on a football scholarship, so I guess it doesn’t really matter what he’s taking.”

“It’s impressive nonetheless. UCLA football is a division one sport. I think people are quick to assume college athletes are somehow less than, especially at schools like this one. But they work hard.”

“My bad, didn’t mean to offend you or anything. Are you an athlete too? Wait, let me guess.” Mercedes stops in the middle of the walkway and surveys Quinn up and down. “Swim. No. Gymnastics, final answer.”

Quinn beams. Looks like she’s still got it. “I’m flattered, but no. I don’t have time for sports right now. But your guesses are fairly accurate. I used to cheer, back at my last school, and I work at the pool as a lifeguard.”

“That’s two points for Miss Jones.”

“Is Finn single?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Despite the whole gross fist bump debacle, Finn is quite good-looking. He may be a tad less bright than what Quinn is accustomed to, but he has that classic jawline she likes. And he’s a football player, which would be a perfect topic of conversation if he was ever introduced to the rest of the Fabray clan. It would certainly appease her father, and her mother would fawn over his conventional attractiveness. It helps that he is far more handsome than Frannie’s current husband. Yes, Quinn can see it now, all of them congregated around the dinner table on some Hallmark holiday, addressing things like picket fences and two point five babies and a potentially medium- to large-sized dog. For the children, of course.

Except the fantasy is shattered with Mercedes’ following words.

“I don’t think you wanna go down that road, sister. He and Rachel have this weird on-again, off-again thing, ergo the knight in shining armor act,” Mercedes explains. Quinn can’t help but feel a tinge of dejection.

“What about Mike?”

He’s fit, Quinn reasons, if the telltale definition of abs under his T-shirt is any indication. Mike’s clearly a lot more astute than Finn is—he didn’t partake in the fist bump, and he seemed genuinely interested when Quinn talked about her goals after graduation. Not the nuclear family plan, but the fact that she wants to act. Mike is a worthy contender.

But again, no such luck.

“Um, he and Tina might be dating, but nothing’s set in stone. I think his dad doesn’t like her or something. Which sucks, ‘cause she’s pretty cool.”

Quinn _hmms_ thoughtfully. Oh well, plenty of fish in the sea. Best not to latch onto the first men who goofily smile at her anyway.

“And before you ask, Puckerman is single, but he’s all kinds of trouble. Trust me, I’ve been there. He manages to get into the pants of anyone with a damn pulse.”

“Oh, like boy Santana.” Quinn doesn’t even know why she even brought her roommate up, seeing as she tried so hard to avoid talk about her over dinner. A ghost, she thinks, an infuriating ghost that has managed to crawl under her skin the very minute they spoke.

But Mercedes’ laugh pulls her out of her displeasure. “Girl, no one even compares. Not even Puck. And he’s on a mission to sleep with all the girls on the floor.”

“Bet you twenty dollars he won’t even make it through half of them,” Quinn says, sticking out her hand.

Mercedes shakes it. “You’re so on.”

Dysfunctional as the bunch is, Quinn may have found her first friends.

* * *

In terms of religion, Quinn can’t help but speculate if the whole ‘roommate from Hell’ thing is a test from Jesus himself. Her mother always told her that in order to prove the disciples' understanding of His teachings and instruction, Christ would test them in times of adversity. And that there will come a time when she would go through the same trials.

Today must be one of those times, Quinn reckons, as she ransacks her drawers with careless abandon. The room is beginning to revert back to its week one state of disorder, but this time, it’s Quinn’s clothes that are now scattered on the carpet, her books that are flung off the shelves, her cabinets that are opened, leaving its contents—and Quinn—in disarray.

“My laptop charger’s missing.”

Santana doesn’t look up from the mirror where she’s layering on way too much mascara. The precise one-two flick of Santana’s wrist, followed by a dip back into the tube, followed by more flicks leave Quinn huffy and impatient. Who does this woman think she is, ignoring her?

“Hey,” she says, snapping her fingers, “I’m talking to you.”

The wand halts midair and she sees Santana roll her eyes in the reflection. “How is _your_ failure to keep track of _your_ shit _my_ problem?”

“It was here before I went to sleep, then you let some bastard thief in last night and now it’s gone,” Quinn shrieks. “I’ve looked everywhere for it, and unlike you, I tend to keep track of my belongings. It’s basic mise en place.”

“Shit, Puck warned me. Fucking klepto.” Judging by his personality during dinner, Quinn’s not surprised that he keeps terrible company. Her lips purse at the thought of Santana allowing some Puck-like meathead into their room.

“Santana, you willingly brought a criminal into our room? God, what’s next, an actual psychopath?” It’s an unreasonable jump, but Quinn is far from reasonable right now.

“Calm your tits, _loca_ , I’ll replace it,” she drones, already swiping bright red gloss on her lips.

“You better.”

Quinn’s eyes follow Santana as she darts around the room, holding up dress after dress and scowling at her reflection before throwing them down onto the damn chair.

“Will you please stop moving? You’re giving me vertigo. Pick one and put the rest back. It’s two feet away!”

Another eye roll, and Quinn’s on the verge of firing a ‘keep rolling your eyes, maybe you’ll find a brain back there’ before Santana snatches up the bundle and shoves it into her closet, slamming the door. “Jesus, neat freak. Take a breather. Might I remind you, it’s your mess all over the room right now.”

She shudders at the thought of so many wrinkles, but whatever; out of sight, out of mind. And since it truly is Quinn’s mess, she begins the methodical routine of re-folding all her laundry, tucking the books back into the shelf, and realigning all her pens and papers in the drawers. She’s minding her own business now, which Santana ought to be grateful for. Except, halfway through her organization, her roommate steps into a gaudy cheetah print dress so tiny that she’s pretty sure if Santana bent over Quinn would be able to see her ovaries.

“Where are you even going looking like that?”

“What the fuck, dude, I already have a mom,” Santana grumbles, zipping into a pair of rather intricate and strappy tall boots. "This third degree shit needs to go. What does it matter to you anyway?”

Quinn’s at a loss for words because my god, does Santana have the fucking audacity. She sends a prayer up to Heaven, asking for forgiveness for the future felonies she may commit. At this rate they’d be lucky to emerge from the quarter alive.

* * *

The hair on the back of Quinn’s neck stands as she nears closer and closer to her door. Something tells her to stop, and she does, hand hovering over the keycard slot. Voices come from behind the wood.

“ _No, mira, mira, mira_. She gets off on Jesus or whatever and is the very reincarnation of the Virgin Mary, but trust me when I say this: she’s so extra. Like, my level of bitchery. Just less hot and more uptight.”

There’s a giggle, and then a “No one’s hotter than you.”

“Damn straight.”

“She does have a crazy amount of religious stuff. Who needs four rosemaries?”

The tips of Quinn’s ears burn. She started with only one, but accumulated more over the times she felt especially far from God and especially close to sucker punching Santana in the mouth. It’s only the first week, so she’ll probably have fifty by the time summer rolls around.

“They’re called rosaries, Brittany. But I know right? Abuela doesn’t even have that many. I swear, someone needs to yank the massive stick outta that self-righteous ass. Or fuck her, at least.”

Hot tears prick at Quinn’s eyes and every fiber of her being is telling her to turn around, but she’s almost late for work. Quinn Fabray is never late; she prides herself on punctuality. So she grits her teeth, straightens her shoulders, and channels her inner bitch. If that’s what Santana’s going to call her, that’s what Santana’s going to get.

The door swings open and the conversation stops. Her roommate doesn’t even acknowledge her arrival. At least the other girl, Brittany, has the decency to look chagrined. Quinn breezes past and heads to her closet.

“Oh, do _not_ stop on my account. I’m grabbing my work clothes, so by all means, continue with your sacrilege.”

Brittany hops off her roommate’s desk with a considerable amount of grace. “I’m gonna go.”

“You don’t have to,” Santana says, catching her friend’s wrist as she heads towards the door. There’s a humanity in her roommate’s eyes that Quinn’s never seen. She does a double-take but it’s gone in a flash, that typical hardness shifting back into her features. “She’s leaving anyway.”

“It’s fine. I’ll see you later, yeah?” Brittany presses a lingering kiss to Santana’s cheek. “Love you, S. Play nice.”

“Yeah, yeah. Love you, B.”

Something gnaws in the pit of Quinn’s stomach as she combs through her drawers, carefully tucking the grey shirt, blue shorts, and red swimsuit into neat little cubes to fit them into her backpack. The skin of her own wrist prickles. As infuriated as she is, Santana and Brittany’s exchange leaves her hollow; she’s always had a hard time with friendship, especially ones that include any form of intimacy. Her parents aren’t touchy people, and Quinn’s never been much of a hugger.

Bile rises in her throat, all because stupid Santana has everything Quinn’s ever dreamed of. Friends, a life that doesn’t revolve around round-the-clock studying and working, and that closeness Quinn so desperately yearns for. No one wanted to be friends with shy, chubby Lucy, who would have rather spent most of her time with her nose buried in books than talking about boys, and she’s worried that—even with the surgeries and the exercise and the dieting—Mercedes and company will find out about her past, and no one will want to be friends with Quinn either.

She’s already transferred once because of it, because she was promoted to captain of her last squad and some bitter bottom-pyramid bitch somehow got ahold of a photo of Lucy and subsequently streamed it onto the Jumbotron, effectively running Quinn off the field and out of her last school in one swift move.

Santana's bookshelf captures her eye as she blinks back tears.

There are now six lines chiseled deep into the wood.

* * *

It’s week two and Quinn quickly realizes three things.

One, her roommate has a strange aversion to clothes. Even if she decides to wear any, they’re either skin-tight or scraps of fabric so miniscule there may be no reason to wear anything at all.

As if reading Quinn’s mind, Santana drops her towel as soon as she crosses the threshold into their room. Her post-shower body glistens in the sunlight as she haphazardly slides her hangers back and forth, the sound of metal on metal grating Quinn’s gears. Suddenly, all thoughts of tech rehearsals and dense scripts fly out the window and are replaced with thoughts of Santana single-handedly keeping Agent Provocateur in business because what the _fuck_ is that?

(It’s a matching set. Lacy and plum and pretty and Quinn feels real Pennsylvania Dutch in her cotton briefs.)

The half of her forever faithful to the Christian upbringing is immediately scandalized. The other half—let’s call it morbid curiosity—isn’t.

Either way, she’s frozen.

“See something you like?”

Quinn snaps her mouth shut, which is weird because she didn’t realize it was hanging open in the first place. She focuses all her attention back to her textbook, willing herself to concentrate on the words. It turns out to be a futile endeavor, however, because plum and lace permeate her brain and she keeps reading the same sentence over and over again.

The second thing she learns is that Santana’s a bitch ass liar because Quinn’s still borrowing Tina’s spare laptop charger.

And three, the total is up to nine.

* * *

Quinn’s back on the other side of the room investigating (they’ve been living together for a solid fifteen days and Santana remains much of a mystery) when the object of her fascination waltzes in, two coffee cups in her hands and a shopping bag hanging between her teeth.

“Morning, roomie,” she mumbles, the plastic swaying under her chin as she does so, “got you presents.”

The only thing Quinn manages to say is a stupid “Oh”. Santana spits the bag out and it lands with a crinkle on her duvet. Quinn wonders if she’s doing this because her blonde friend, Brittany, told her to be nice.

Santana shoves one of the cups towards her. “Coffee and a charger. There’s a chocolate croissant somewhere in there too. Hopefully, unless Britt ate it already.”

Still reeling from the uncharacteristic friendliness, Quinn doesn’t have it in her to admit that she doesn’t actually like coffee. So she takes a small sip and offers a weak thanks when the bitterness hits her tongue, trying her hardest not to make a face. Santana doesn’t seem to notice and instead launches into an investigation of her own.

“What, may I ask, were you doing before I came in?”

There’s no use in lying, so Quinn answers honestly. “Getting to know you, I guess. Pretty sure this is our fourth conversation.”

“Four, huh? You keeping count?” Santana says, wiggling her brows. “What’d you find out?”

“Nothing much. I’m assuming you’re a women’s studies major, with your astounding collection of feminist literature.”

“Bingo,” she says with a wink, then takes a sip out of her own cup and _ahhs_ in contentment. “Is that all?” The way Santana emphasizes the last word makes Quinn feel like she’s… missing something.

Her eyes dart over to the marks on the shelf and she wonders if it’s a good time to bring it up. But she doesn’t know how Santana will react, or if the question would be too forward, considering Quinn can list the number of times they’ve spoken. Also because this is the only exchange she’s had with her roommate that didn’t make Quinn feel like jamming a pen into her eye. Blame it on the coffee, or the charger, or the croissant that _was_ in the bag, which is actually rather delectable. Quinn doesn’t really do carbs, but the way its buttery flakes melt on her tongue has her nearly moaning.

But Santana’s looking at her expectantly, peculiarly, so Quinn takes a break from her indulgence and responds.

“Didn’t get too good of a look. I just woke up.”

“Right.” Santana pulls her lip between her teeth. “Hey, what’s your name? I know the housing department sends a message out before the quarter, but I don’t really check my email.”

Okay, she’s offended. Fifteen days they’ve been roommates and she expected Santana to at the very least know this pertinent piece of information. Sure, she does spend more time out of the room than in it, but Quinn’s been so caught up with trying to figure her out that she didn’t even think there was an option where her roommate wouldn’t be doing the same.

A bite of the pastry gets stuck halfway down Quinn’s throat and she scrambles to take a swig of the coffee, wincing as the acidity coats her taste buds. She doesn’t have the time to cover it up and this time it catches Santana’s attention.

“Not a fan?”

“Not really, no.”

“Speak up next time, babe, I could’ve gotten you tea or something. You seem like the matcha type. With your…” Santana scans up and down her body in such a way that makes Quinn want to shrink under the intensity. “You know.”

“First of all, I have no idea what a matcha is. And second, no, I most certainly do not _know_ ,” she says icily. She stuffs the pastry back in the bag and tosses it aside. There can’t be anything wrong with how she looks. Her father spent a good chunk of money making it so. Maybe it’s her choice of sleepwear? So she doesn’t own stock in lingerie like someone in the room must—there’s nothing wrong with plaid pajama shorts and a university T-shirt. It’s a far cry from the things Santana wears to bed but at least it’s comfortable.

Quinn rubs at her shoulders, hoping to ease the knots balling rapidly in the muscles. Why does she even care so much?

“No need to be such a bitch.”

“Can you please stop calling me bitch, or babe, or whatever else you think is so damn clever?” Quinn snaps. The ‘Days Without Wanting to Stab Santana’ count reverts back to zero. The pen on her desk is sharp and ready, like a sword prepped for battle. It's just outside of her immediate reach, but she glowers at it all the same.

“Well, what am I supposed to call you? Like I said, I don’t know your name. Here, since I’m generous, I’ll even give you some options. We could do Ice Queen, or Bible Belt Barbie, or Ghost of Grace Kelly, or—”

Since Quinn kind of enjoys the fact Santana thinks she looks like Princess of Monaco (more than she’d let on, of course), she shoves the first two options and her irritation aside. “How about we go with Quinn?”

“Got it. And your last name?”

“Why?”

“It’s only fair. You know mine.” Quinn opens her mouth to speak, a rebuttal of ‘how do you know I know yours?’ on the tip of her tongue, but Santana somehow reads her mind, _again_. “Don’t act like you haven’t asked around about me. I’ve got eyes and ears all over this joint. I’m royalty around here, honey.”

“So modest, too.”

“Forget it,” Santana grumbles, finishing the last bit of her coffee before tossing it in the recycling with way too much force. “Last time I try being kind to you. Buying you coffee and shit.”

“It’s Fabray,” she reveals, finally, because Santana really was being kind, strange as it has been. And at least she threw her trash away this time. “Quinn Fabray.”

Santana rolls it around her mouth a few times before announcing that yes, it’s perfect, like there was anything she could do if it wasn’t. Quinn hates her last name, it’s snooty and posh and _Lucy Quinn Fabray_ is about as country club as it gets. She never felt like a true Fabray—not even after the 'rebranding', as people in LA would call it. But there’s something about the way it flows from Santana’s tongue, coupled with the fact that Santana’s now smiling that signature megawatt smile, that makes Quinn think there might be some value to it.

Even so, she practically has whiplash from all the hot and cold. It makes her head hurt.

“Cool. Get dressed."

Quinn eyes her curiously. “What for?”

“We’re going to the café and I’m getting you a matcha. Can’t have you living in LA without having experienced the wonders of Japanese green tea. So put on one of your cute little Jesus sundresses and let’s get this party started.”

She doesn’t know whether to be pleased because Santana called her choice of outfits cute, or bothered because she called them Jesus-y. Nevertheless, Quinn ducks behind the closet door and slips one on anyway.

If she emerges wearing one of her best dresses, the baby blue eyelet one she got at a sample sale, it’s purely coincidental. When Santana tugs on the hem, muttering a “Lookin’ good,” and Quinn blushes, well. That’s coincidental too.

* * *

Cohabitation becomes much easier after that.

Santana apologizes for being a slob, and since Quinn has a distinct feeling she doesn’t say sorry often, she apologizes for being a dick. Her roommate waves hers off though, claiming she’d much rather deal with issues head on than find all of her clothes thrown out in the hallway again. Santana replies with a shrug and a “Passive aggressive roommates, what can you do?” when Quinn prods.

The newfound civility bewilders her.

This is evidenced by the time when Santana observes Quinn staring longingly at the BLT halfway into her mouth, and offers to share. Quinn tells her it isn’t necessary. But then her roommate goes on to say that she has the highest tier meal plan possible, meaning she can pretty much get whatever she wants from the dining halls at any time. Quinn’s stuck with the worst one, because _apparently_ her parents were so desperately worried about the Freshman Fifteen (even though she’s in her second year now) that they’d rather have their child go hungry than have unlimited access to food.

“It’s literally a non-issue, Quinn. Let me get you a damn sandwich.”

She’s about to refuse again, but her traitor of a stomach rumbles and Santana bolts out the door so fast Quinn doesn’t have time to object. She comes back with another BLT ten minutes later and slams it into her hands.

“Tell no one. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“That the infamous Santana Lopez, biggest bitch on campus, is actually a huge softie?” Quinn chides, taking a bite. “Cross my heart.”

Santana smirks. “Told you you knew my last name, stalker.”

The floor continues to be entirely visible, garbage doesn’t pile up, and while Santana still spends the majority of her time elsewhere, her comings and goings don’t disturb Quinn as much.

Well, they do, because her roommate’s life seems to be straight out of a coming-of-age movie. With all the parties and the boys and though Quinn hangs with Mercedes a lot, she feels like she’s missing out. Working fastidiously through the dining halls and going to mass on Sundays with your only friend isn’t exactly the model of Quinn’s ideal college experience. She wants to make more memories outside of church, because Lord knows she has more than enough of those in her back pocket.

But the dining hall thing is good, she muses. Quinn can admit she’s beginning to have a slightly healthier relationship with food, and the thought makes her grin.

The cuisine in LA is a whole different world. Lima is a small, predominantly white town with fare restricted to fast food joints and subpar Italian restaurants, and Quinn didn’t think she’d ever find things she liked more than pizza and ice cream. But in the city, Quinn’s since harbored a love for things like Korean barbecue (thank you, Mike) and gyros (thank you, Puck) and god, _real_ Mexican. Dollar fifty carne asada tacos in particular. Her friends always regard her with rapt attention when Quinn tries something new, and laugh when her eyes light up.

Regardless, she mustn’t let this newfound appreciation get away from her. It doesn’t help with the whole limited social circle issue. Perhaps she can tag along the next time Santana goes out. She’d probably say yes; Santana’s always telling her things like “Quinn, you need to relax” or “Quinn, you’re gonna burn out before the quarter’s over” or “Quinn, I know places better suited for weekends than the university library”.

Okay, so maybe the invitation is already there. Santana isn’t exactly subtle, but Quinn doesn’t know if they’re quite at that level yet. But they’re sure as hell not at one another’s throats anymore.

It’s at this time Quinn retracts her statement. There’s been a significant drop in the likelihood of roommate-cide. And she’s grateful. She’s really keen on graduating.

* * *

More often than not, there’s a matcha latte and a pastry sitting on Quinn’s desk with a post-it reading some variation of ‘ _who the fuck signs up for 8:00 a.m. lectures - san_ ’ when her alarm goes off in the morning. It never fails to make her smile. This tradition began when Quinn insisted they merge their Google Calendars, as Santana was usually getting in as the ringing went off, stripping out of another one of those skin-tight dresses and taking shelter underneath the covers.

Sometimes Santana’s not even in bed, which makes Quinn smile even more, because it meant her roommate went out of her way to drop breakfast off. She tries to Venmo her every time but Santana won’t give up the damn username.

The calendar thing is probably one of Quinn’s best ideas, because she avoids the opportunity for another burglary and gets to stock up on green tea deliciousness. But also not, because how are there enough boys on campus to keep Santana so busy? The calendar is riddled with events like ‘date with redhead, back row’ or ‘date with black pants denim jacket from quad’, and once a week, someone dubbed nothing more than ‘caps’ on Wednesdays at 6:00 p.m.

Who schedules routine tête-à-têtes on the least sexy day of the week at the least sexy hour of the day? Also, how in the world does Santana keep track of these people from descriptors only? Which begs the follow-up question, why don’t any of these men have names in the first place?

It’s not envy.

Fine. It’s envy. But only because Quinn’s current offers are from Finn and Puck, and she really, really, really doesn’t want to go down those roads. Mostly because Rachel already has those absurd storm outs weekly and the walls rattle every time the door slams. And Puck’s pretty much a walking STD disguised as a jackass with a mohawk.

There are now ten marks in the wood, but Quinn’s new yoga class starts in fifteen minutes and she doesn't have any more time to ponder what they mean. Not that she wants to. There are more important things for her to focus on other than her roommate.

Except as the session nears its end and the instructor leads them through a guided meditation, telling them to imagine a happy place, Quinn only pictures Santana. It's so stupid, Santana isn’t even a _place_. As much as she attempts to visualize her mother's garden, or her old university's library with its gothic architecture, or literally _anything_ else, all she sees is bronzed skin and long legs and shiny hair. She huffs loudly in the silent space and her classmates glare at her. Rising from savasana, she shoots one back, making sure to meet all their eyes, challenging them wordlessly. She's about to thank Frannie for teaching her the power of a good scowl when the instructor looks at Quinn and shakes her head.

Yoga will be good for her, she thinks, lowering back down into the resting pose. Because she needs a healthy outlet in which to release her anger and exercise in a very non-competitive way. She might enroll in the intermediate class, however, because all this dormancy is giving her too much time to think about Santana. And this is something she absolutely cannot be doing. For the sake of Jesus, her academics, and her sanity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> secrets are revealed, quinn feels some crazy things, and santana's kinda the greatest roommate of all time.

Once again, God is testing Quinn's will. She's sure of it.

Twice in the span of the first three weeks of school seems almost cruel. Even so, this is a trial of faith, a pledge of undying loyalty to her Lord and Savior, and surely she can control her inquiries. Who is she to defy Him? Ever the devoted servant, she keeps her questions at bay, hoping Santana will offer an explanation as to why the bookshelf is starting to look like an inmate’s jail cell on her own.

Alas, her roommate has made no such moves.

As Quinn’s patience wanes, the incessant mockery of the wood has become impossible to ignore. She thinks she’s passed His assessment of tolerance with flying colors, if the ‘Days Without Wanting to Stab Santana’ count is any proof. It’s at an astounding seven, a feat Quinn previously thought impossible.

Test or not, the stubborn hammer of curiosity chips away at the walls of her resolve as time passes. When the tally jumps to an obnoxious sixteen—and Quinn feels a nagging need to scold her roommate for destruction of property—she claps her textbook shut and steels her nerves.

“Santana?”

“What up, Q?” Santana replies, not looking up from where she’s painting her nails.

Her heart flutters. She’s never had a nickname. Her parents thought it unnecessary, because the name Lucy was a gift from His Holiness himself, sent down to her mother in dream, and calling her anything else would be rebuking both Him and her parents. And they wonder why she’s a drama major. But still, she knew better than to press. They had a hard time when she made the switch over to Quinn already. And her name was only one syllable anyway.

But, she digresses.

“I’ve been meaning to ask—why are there lines carved into your university-issued bookshelf?”

Santana laughs. Cherry red lacquer is on the verge of dripping off the tiny brush and onto the carpet. Quinn fights the urge to stumble forth and lay down a napkin but she keeps her eyes peeled for potential staining, just in case.

“I'm keeping track," Santana says, in a 'duh' sort of tone.

“Yes, obviously, but what exactly are you keeping track of?”

“Girls."

“Cryptic much?” Quinn sees the outline of the Swiss Army knife that her roommate really does carry around in her pocket every day, and for a moment, she imagines it being used for reasons other than innocent wood-etching. “I mean, I’ve heard some pretty sketch things about you but, Santana… are you _killing_ underclassmen?”

“Back the fuck up, are you for real?”

Quinn likes to believe she’s relatively knowledgeable about many things. That’s why this situation in particular is so frustrating—she’s entirely in the dark. She doesn’t like to feel stupid, and Santana’s making her feel stupid, and she does not know how to process it. Santana slips the brush back into the bottle and watches her intently. Quinn’s aware her nostrils may be flaring, her fists are wound in the hem of her dress, and she’s glaring daggers into the shelf.

Santana’s eyes go wide with worry, and what Quinn thinks looks a lot like regret. “Shit. I’m gonna need you to relax, yeah? You’re gonna tear the fabric.”

Calm, centering breaths, the yoga instructor’s voice rings in her ear. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“My bad, Q, didn’t know that was a genuine question.”

“It was, but you know what? It’s fine. I don’t even care anymore.”

(This is a lie. Someone’s running a pair of scissors up and down the last thread of Quinn’s thinning lucidity, and Jesus or not, this not-so-secret secret is dismantling her.)

A beat, then two, then three, and Quinn thinks her childish outburst destroyed the conversation before it even began. Finally, Santana sighs, and finishes her pedicure. “I’m not killing anyone, Quinn. I _am_ sleeping with them though.”

“Oh, right. Well, that makes sense!” Quinn exclaims, slapping a palm to her forehead.

A weight has been lifted off her shoulders. All is right; Santana is not a serial killer, she’s just incredibly sexually active, and Quinn knows another thing now. Of course her roommate would like to keep track of her conquests, that’s perfectly normal. Building a reputation for the most casual hookups doesn’t seem an easy feat, and what better way to maintain accuracy than to scratch tallies into—

Wait. Rewind. The scissors snip.

 _Girls_. Santana is sleeping with girls. Santana… is gay. Oh, god, her roommate is gay. What would her father say? No, he can never know. He’ll have Quinn switch dorms, probably the furthest one from her current building, and then she won’t be able to have iced matchas in the morning anymore. It's not as if she doesn't have the means to purchase them herself but somehow, she knows it won't be as special. Oh, and all her friends live on this floor.

There’s also the slight chance that a new roommate could somehow be _worse_ than Santana Lopez. It’s taken three weeks for them to reach this stage of… friendship? And she’s really not up for going through all of it _ad nauseum_ with a different person.

Quinn frowns and scrutinizes the girl expertly filing her fingernails into the shape of an almond, wholly unaware of Quinn’s observations. She doesn’t look like a lesbian. Santana is one hundred percent the poster child of every teenage boy’s wet dream, with the painted-on dresses and the wildly high heels. There is not a speck of flannel in her entire wardrobe.

She’s overheard Finn mention her “Coke-bottle body” and Puck mention an “ass that won’t quit”. Not even Mike is immune to her feminine wiles. He’s never expressed anything aloud, but the gaze lingers.

She gets it. It’s the same way people look at her now: a combination of interest and wary hesitance.

To be fair, Quinn is predictably uninformed regarding the intricacies of lesbianism. She knows two from Lima; a couple that lived three houses over from her childhood home. Her mother wouldn’t let her play in the yard when they were outside, like she’d be tainted in proximity. Lucy didn’t get it for a while—they were nice women, one was a doctor and gave her stickers. Cool ones, like the scratch and sniff kind. Lucy loved them and stuck them on her school binder. She'd accumulated popcorn and strawberry and root beer (her favorite), until her father asked about where she’d get all the stickers and she casually cited they were from the neighbors. He went red in the face immediately and spouted so many awful words Quinn doesn’t even want to _think_ about.

The binder was in the garbage the next morning.

Still, she feels so thoroughly asinine because of course she’s heard the rumors, she’s not deaf, but she is piously Christian. She might have her hearing but she sure lacks other senses; recalling the gender-neutral descriptors on the calendar, the lipstick stains on Santana’s collars, the way Santana usually smells like cardamom and sandalwood, but sometimes comes back to the room in a cloud of some cheap Victoria’s Secret body spray.

Quinn silently thanks Santana for her relatively short attention span, because she seems to have no interest in this very extensive, very internal freak out. She can’t believe her mind skipped over homosexuality and went straight to mass murder.

“Hold on, you’ve slept with sixteen girls? The quarter began a month ago.”

Santana shrugs and tucks the nail file back into its sleeve. “Been a slow start, Fabray.”

And that’s the end of that.

* * *

The tally jumps one point but then stagnates for the next week, and Santana’s in her own bed every night for five consecutive days.

Quinn doesn’t know why, she doesn’t ask, but the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and her iced matcha seems that much sweeter.

* * *

Quinn feels like absolute shit when she glances over at the shelf and sees two new marks. She’s not jealous or anything, she’s _not_. Her morning matcha is bitter and she can only suck down half before she tosses it.

If Santana senses the change in her mood, she doesn’t question it either.

* * *

Quinn never thought she’d find herself missing Ohio, but as the sun beats down on her back, she thinks that perhaps she was a bit rash in her escape. Well, maybe not Ohio, not exactly, but she misses spring. True spring, when the buds would flourish into the most beautiful little things. Marigolds, irises, poppies. She misses the Fabray garden, where she would spend hours in the grass, reading as the world blossomed around her.

Yet here she is now, sprinting to work because she mistakenly thought she’d have more than enough time to get from north campus to the dorms in ten minutes, thinking of how much she’d rather be back in that nightmare of a town instead of halfway across the country. Her lungs are burning and it’s so hot out that beads of sweat are dripping into her eyes. Screw California, honestly. There is no reason for it to be a hundred degrees in April.

Los Angeles itself doesn’t particularly have seasons. There’s a running joke amongst the people who live here. Since there’s really no discrepancy in the weather as months tick by, seasons can be categorized into four very, very Hollywood-type intervals: fire, pilot, earthquake, and awards.

Quinn divides it into hot and _hotter_.

She vows to move the day after graduation as another bead drops into her left eye, temporarily blinding her. Preferably somewhere less likely to give her a sunburn the second she steps outside. Maybe Toronto or Oslo. Hell, she’ll even take Siberia at this point.

And then she’s on her ass, the world knocked askew because someone bulldozed right into her. Or, rather, she bulldozed into them, but whatever. She can’t see. Not her fault. Fucking LA.

“ _¡Cuidado, puta!_ ” a voice yells, then gasps, then goes “Quinn?”

“Ow, shit.” Her sight trails up the two silhouettes standing in front of her, linked together at the pinkies. She puts her hand up, blocking the sun and letting her eyes adjust to the light.

Of all the people she could have literally (literally!) run into, it’s Santana and Brittany who are looking down at her with similar expressions of panic.

After Brittany’s initial shock subsides, she unhooks their fingers and reaches out, offering to help. As much as Quinn wants to maintain at least a minimal semblance of composure, she's fully aware of the ache that radiates from her tailbone.

“Hi, I’m Britt,” she chirps, happily pulling Quinn up, “Santana’s best friend.”

“I remember. Hello,” she says with as much dignity as possible, which is difficult considering the way Quinn feels a bruise already blooming on her ass. She dusts the back of her jeans off and winces as pain zaps through.

God, it is so not her day.

Her eyes flit back and forth between the pair, noticing the way Brittany’s expression has since morphed into concern while Santana's remains the same.

“I’m gonna be late for work. But um, thank you, Brittany,” she mumbles, unconsciously leaving Santana out of her appreciation. Not that her roommate is doing anything but staring, so a thanks really isn’t warranted here.

Brittany still looks worried. “Don’t mention it. Are you gonna be okay? We can walk you to work, right, Santana?” she offers, pinching Santana’s elbow to force her back to reality.

”What? Sure, yeah.”

”I can manage. Thanks again.” Quinn limps away, head hung low. She groans, she’s definitely going to be late now.

She’s almost out of earshot when she hears the solid _thunk_ of a hand swatting the back of a head, and a “Bitch, what was that for?” followed by a “San, you’re an idiot”.

* * *

There's a post-it on Quinn's mirror when she gets back from work.

_ice pack in the fridge, advil in my bottom drawer - san_

* * *

It’s mid-afternoon on another sweltering Saturday when Santana pipes up from… whatever she’s doing. What is Santana doing? Is she highlighting printouts? Odd. Quinn was under the impression that her roommate doesn’t do schoolwork. They’re both at their desks when Quinn sneaks a glimpse at Santana's papers. The top has ‘Brittany Pierce’ scrawled in round, bubbly penmanship. It’s also written in sparkly pink gel pen.

Why is Santana doing Brittany’s homework when Quinn’s never seen her do her own? She’s so absorbed in yet another unknown (she's growing tired of her own constant ignorance) she nearly misses Santana’s question.

“Does it bother you?”

Quinn’s eyes snap up to meet her roommate’s, but Santana continues to highlight as if she hasn’t asked anything at all. “Does what bother me?”

“That I’m gay.” Santana says it so off-handedly that Quinn cocks her head to the side and stares at her for about half a minute. She didn’t realize her roommate valued her opinion in any way. She ponders for a moment because truthfully? She doesn’t know. Again. Leviticus 20:13 flickers through her mind.

 _'I_ _f_ _a man lies with a male as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.'_

But Santana’s here in all her visibly unrepentant lesbian glory, sins ingrained in the wood, and it really doesn’t affect her as much as Quinn thought it would.

(It does affect her. But not in the way Santana’s alluding to.

She shoves _that_ deep down.)

Times like these she truly wishes her parents sprung for an air-conditioned room because the humidity topped with Santana’s gaze has her sweating. Her roommate, however, doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does? Because she’s in a barely there crop top and these immorally short denim cut-offs, but like, whatever. Santana may be gay but Quinn’s definitely not.

So she sometimes catches herself thinking of the way the freckles on Brittany’s shoulders look like galaxies, or the way Mercedes’ kind eyes crinkle at the corner when she laughs, or the way Rachel’s legs seem to go on for miles, despite her petite stature.

Or, right now for instance, the way Santana’s brow is creased in concentration, the end of the pen dangling effortlessly between her lips.

Again, Quinn’s not gay. She’s observant, that’s all. Exceedingly observant.

Her mind flashes back to last Friday, after Santana’s confession, a brief ‘homosexuality’ typed hesitantly into the search bar. Out of pure curiosity, of course—Quinn values her livelihood. And as much as it feels like she’s already been welcomed into the gates of Hell with this stupid weather, she’s not actively trying to be stoned to death or shipped off to conversion camp if her parents somehow caught wind of her Google history.

“No,” she discloses after much too long.

Santana releases a long breath and caps the highlighter. “Okay, great. I thought I’d ask out of courtesy. You know, because of your necklace and your uncanny resemblance to an Amish school teacher. What's up with the endless amount of cardigans, Q?”

Quinn’s hand flies up immediately, pressing the pads of her fingers into the sharp points of the cross that hangs on her chest. “I like the way I dress.”

“Never said I didn’t.”

* * *

An armful of lilies enters the room first, and Santana’s head peeks out from behind them with a smile entirely too smug for Quinn’s liking.

“What’s got you all… grinny?”

“Young love,” her roommate exhales, dazedly.

Santana? In love? Now that’s something.

Quinn’s eyes are dry from the hours she’s spent staring at her computer screen. Frankly, she could use a break, so she humors her. “Who’s the unlucky victim?”

“Fuck off. But her name is Holly Holliday.”

Holliday… it rings a bell but she can’t quite place it. Alarms go off a minute later and Quinn laughs. “Back up, bitch. Your Gender 104 TA? Did you run out of students to seduce? You just _had_ to move onto faculty?”

Santana squints at her. “She’s smart and funny and an Aries.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Give it till the summer. LA’s _all_ about astrology. You’ll learn. What are you…” Santana looks her up and down. There's an intensity in her inspection and, once again, Quinn feels the need to shy away. What is it about this girl that makes her feel so awfully bashful? “An Aquarius? Wait, no,” she corrects herself, after a quick glance at Quinn's half-finished essay, "a Taurus."

“How—how’d you know that? My birthday’s in two weeks,” Quinn stutters, baffled. One, what did the essay have to do with anything? And two, is this woman psychic?

Santana heads to the mini-fridge before tipping back a bottle of tequila until there’s nothing left. Granted, there were approximately only four or so shots worth of liquid leftover, but Quinn still finds it admirable. Santana then unscrews the cap of Quinn's yellow Hydroflask, pouring the water into the now-empty tequila bottle, and carefully positions the flowers in the glass. Santana stands back and nods to herself. It’s beautifully done, she has to admit. Centered, full, balanced. If the women’s studies thing doesn’t work out, her roommate could have a future in floral arrangement.

“I’ve lived here my entire life, babe. It’s a SoCal sixth sense or whatever. And technically Holly’s still a student. We ran into each other at Trader Joe’s and she bought me these,” Santana explains, adjusting a rogue leaf. “I got her number and we’re going out for drinks at eight.”

“You’re… kidding me,” Quinn deadpans, mirth fading fast. She has half a mind to call the bar ahead of time to tell them Santana’s ID is fake.

(Still not jealousy. Just looking out for a friend, or whatever. You know how older women are.)

“Nope.”

“What kind of name is Holly Holliday anyway? That’s some stripper shit. And not a high-tone one for athletes and businessmen either, the sleazy kind.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “You know, you curse a lot for being such a whore for Jesus.”

“Mmm, and you can go fuck yourself. Also, you broke the third commandment.”

“No harm, Q, I like ‘em feisty. Also, strippers are the backbone of society. Their core strength? Flawless. Their take-no-shit attitude? Down to a T. Bills on bills on bills, bitch. It’s my dream life.” Santana enunciates each point with a loud clap.

“We get it, you’re a women’s studies major. Might I remind you: you’re a trust fund baby.”

“ _Lincoln Heights_ trust fund baby,” she parrots back.

“Whatever. Have fun on your date.”

Santana gives her a sly wink. “Best believe I will. See you tomorrow!”

Quinn yanks a petal off one of the lilies and throws it out the window as soon as her roommate slips out. Screw yoga. She should have taken boxing or SoulCycle or something equally high-intensity, because no amount of meditative breathing will get her through… whatever this is.

* * *

Much to Quinn’s surprise, Santana returns back to the dorm later that night, doing her best impression of a guilty dog. Like, tail between her legs and everything. She flops down onto Quinn’s bed, pulling the sheets from where they’re crisply hotel-tucked and Quinn crosses her arms in frustration.

“Your own bed is three feet away, Santana.”

“Yours has a higher thread count,” she fires back, words partially obscured by the pillow.

Quinn turns her attention back to her homework. Midterms are rounding the corner so she’s getting a head start on next week’s assignment. “I take it you won’t be maiming the shelf tonight?”

“Let’s say I got a little messy. And let’s also say that her wife had to pick us up and drive me home.”

“You’re joking. She’s married?” Quinn’s pen skirts across the paper as she laughs.

“Wish I was, babe. Apparently she thought it was a friendly thing. I’m dead, Q, how am I supposed to go to class tomorrow?” Santana’s voice drops to a humiliated grumble. “This has never happened to me before. Oh my god, I’ve never been _rejected_.”

Good thing Quinn didn’t inform the bar of her fake because this is better than anything she could have ever asked for; even if Santana’s under her sheets with outside clothes on and there’s now a jagged black line besmirching her previously faultless homework. Call it good karma.

“This is comedic gold. Smile for the camera,” she says, pulling out her phone and snapping a couple photos of Santana. “This is Insta-worthy, don’t you think?”

It’s nothing, quite terrible quality really, a questionable lump bundled under the duvet, but Santana doesn’t know that because she will not emerge from her cocoon of shame.

“Don’t you fucking dare, Fabray. I will sue you.”

Quinn tuts. “Posting in three, two—”

She's blindsided by a powerful tackle and tickled until she's crying both “Mercy!” and tears of laughter. Santana straddles her midsection as she deletes the photos from Quinn's phone. There is a very, very mysterious feeling roosting right under where Santana's sitting. She chalks it up to the lack of sensation in her hands (hands, stomachs, they're all the same in the end, aren't they?) because Santana's knees are pinning them to her sides.

“These are shit pics, by the way. Couldn't even tell it was me.”

* * *

Santana half-assedly tries to start a YouTube channel on her third day of self-isolation, evidently so fucking bored without the notion of sexual promiscuity.

Quinn’s gotten used to her being around, the constant company amusing her more than she’d like to admit. All the autonomy Quinn possesses vanishes with a single uptick of her roommate’s perfectly-shaped brow. So that’s how she got here; the taste of _earthworm_ lingering on her tongue from one of those Harry Potter-themed jelly beans—no matter how many times she swishes her mouth out with iced matcha—and Santana’s laptop recording what is now a five-minute long video.

As badass as everyone thinks her roommate is, she’s mostly a huge nerd.

The project is short-lived, however, because Santana takes it upon herself to place one into Quinn’s mouth. The flavor of black pepper is nothing compared to the tingle Quinn feels striking her lips when Santana’s fingers brush against them. Quinn stands all-too-briskly and slams the laptop screen shut. Candy spills across the desk with a loud clatter, then onto the floor where the resounding noise is dulled by the carpet.

Rachel and Tina don’t question why she’s standing at their door (Mercedes was unavailable) with a pillow and a blanket and Santana’s tequila. But they do question why the bottle they’re passing back and forth tastes like pepper, and Quinn drunkenly yells “bullshit Bertie Bott’s beans!” before taking the biggest gulp because _fuck_ alliteration.

* * *

There’s a yellow post-it on the fridge when Quinn stumbles into the room, alternating between rubbing her temples and her back. A curt ‘ _you owe me - san_ ’ is written in… what is that, eyeliner? Quinn groans. She’s got a bitching hangover and she curses last night’s idiocy (both in the drinking and the sleeping on Rachel and Tina’s floor sense), praying for a more uneventful day.

Quinn has spent most of her time in lecture or at the library, revising for midterms, and hasn’t had time to focus on anything else. Like a certain number of tallies carved into a shelf. But she lets herself glance over now as she rifles through Santana’s bottom drawer for some Advil.

She gasps so loud she nearly chokes. Apparently even ultimate embarrassment can’t bring her roommate down. Four new marks adorn the wood, bringing the total to a whopping twenty-three.

* * *

Her roommate’s return to absenteeism is duly noted later that night, because Quinn did not have an uneventful day. In fact, it was most eventful.

Santana’s writing a paper titled ‘The Gay Agenda: Intersectionality through the Lens of a Latina Lesbian’ when Quinn sits down beside her, gushing about this super cute, super funny, super nice boy named Sam in her Theater 20 lecture—who hands her alstroemerias on their first date, who comes from a nice Hollywood family, who lives in the foothills of La Cañada, right next door to the people who wrote the soundtrack for the third-highest grossing Disney film of all time.

Regardless, there is no amount of prospective industry-related networking will make Quinn answer Sam’s stupid texts, like he’s the sole reason Santana’s gone.

Which he _is_ , she insists, when she laments to Mercedes as they walk to the Italian café for dessert. Though her friend laughs and replies, “Girl, you may be whip smart but you sure are clueless.” Quinn flicks a spoonful of gelato at her.

As night falls, she tosses and turns for hours and finds herself peeking over at her roommate’s abandoned bed every ten minutes, like Santana will somehow materialize by the sheer force of Quinn’s will, before exhaustion succumbs her.

Santana snidely comments on the fact that alstroes are a _super_ cheap $2.99 at Whole Foods when she waltzes in the next morning in last night’s sequined ensemble, which Quinn recognizes to be none other than a Santana Lopez Club Fit. Tacky hickeys purple her neck and she violently scratches the pocket knife into the wood, fucking thrice.

Quinn shouts “It’s the thought that counts!” at her before flinging the door shut, hinges rattling in a way that rivals Rachel’s.

* * *

Quinn’s elbow deep in her Drama of Diversity textbook when Santana plops down on the corner of her desk.

“I need a job.”

“You’re a trust fund baby. You don’t need a job. Plus, don’t you have midterms right now?” Quinn says, snatching papers out from under Santana’s ass and smoothing the wrinkles out.

“Eh, took ‘em all already. How many times do I have to tell you, I’m a Lincoln Heights trust fund baby. Not the hotel heiress kind. My _quince_ was pretty modest, comparatively.”

“A trust fund is a trust fund, brat pack, regardless of where you come from,” she remarks, resuming her readings. She’s halfway through the first paragraph when Santana decides to interrupt her, once again.

“Bitch. Will you hook me up at your lifeguard gig or not.” It’s not even a question at this point, Quinn knows a demand when she sees one. Clearly this reading thing is not working out right now, and she leans back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“Can you even swim?”

“I’m born and bred in LA, of course I know how to swim. I was practically birthed on a beach. Plus, I surf. You think these guns are just for show?” Santana asks, flexing her biceps.

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Doesn’t help your ‘not a trust fund baby’ case.”

“Oh, not into arms? That’s fine. What about these?” Her roommate lifts her shirt up, exposing the expanse of her stomach, a defined four-pack coming into view as the fabric rises inch by distressingly tantalizing inch, until the bottom band of a Calvin Klein sports bra peeks through.

A series of rather intrusive images flash through Quinn’s mind—Santana on a beach, Santana wearing one of those wetsuits that practically act as a second skin, Santana’s black hair, wavy and mussed by the ocean spray. The fact that such thoughts are decidedly unholy is the only thing keeping her from furiously blushing.

“Santana, put those away,” Quinn admonishes, (reluctantly) tugging the fabric back down. Her tone is even and does not give away the weird, incredibly inappropriate fantasy she just had. She’s proud of herself. Perhaps she really is made out for this acting thing, after all. “Go girls gone wild on your own time.”

“Come on,” she says, batting her eyelashes, “I didn’t mean to offend your ecclesiastical sensibilities.”

“Now that’s an SAT word if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Excuse me, I was raised Catholic. You think you’re the only one here who spent her entire childhood locked up in mass?”

The divulgence astonishes Quinn a bit. Santana the Catholic? Almost as shocking as the news of Santana the lesbian. “Speak for yourself, heretic. I enjoy church.”

“Yeah, well, I got tired of hearing how I’ll burn in Hell solely because I like vagina. Can’t win ‘em all, I guess,” Santana says, chipping at her manicure. Though she’s trying to be indifferent in her speech, Quinn recognizes the way her voice cracks. It’s enough to mitigate the whole religious thing. From what she’s heard, Catholicism is worse in judgement than general Christianity. Their principles are infused with penitence, and she nearly flinches as she imagines a baby Santana, all wiry and scruffy and sitting in a dark confessional, admitting her sins to a man who believes a child should be subject to the fires of eternal damnation.

It’s unusual, she thinks, the shift in her views over the last six weeks. Quinn feels like she’s on the cusp of a moral breakthrough.

“Anyway… Quinn, I promise I won’t flash you again if you get me a job.”

Oh. She almost forgot.

“What’s the magic word?”

“Get fucked. What is this, kindergarten?” And now we’re back to our regularly scheduled Santana. Quinn’s relieved.

“Suit yourself,” she says, propping up her textbook, making a show out of her mock concentration.

A tiny please slips from her roommate’s lips.

“Nope. Try again, Lopez.”

Santana sighs so loudly that she feels a gust of air on the back of her neck, followed by an eye roll so extreme that Quinn’s genuinely concerned about them getting stuck back there. “Can you please help me get a job at your lifeguard thing? Please?”

Should she be bothered by how much she loves Santana’s begging?

Signs point to no.

“Of _course_ I will. All you had to do was ask,” Quinn says, ducking. A pillow whizzes by her head a beat later and Santana makes a strangled noise of rage before stomping off, broken Spanish curses filtering down the hall.

* * *

Santana obviously kills her interview.

Quinn’s on break when she shows up to the pool the next day in a strangely flattering bright red one-piece, a white plus emblazoned across her chest, a new blue and yellow whistle hanging proudly from her neck.

“Told ya I can swim.”

“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Double negatives? My, my, what would the _real_ Quinn Fabray think?

Quinn slaps her with a random pool noodle.

As she goes on her second date with Sam that night, smiling politely at his impressions, there is a distinct blend of red and white and blue and yellow that flash peskily behind her lids.

* * *

The day after Santana’s first shift, Quinn comes home from yoga early and Sam’s flowers are in the trash. A new bouquet of pink spray roses and white hydrangeas and eucalyptus impressively take residence on her nightstand next to an iced matcha, with a note that reads ‘ _$65, trouty ass loser better step his game up. xo, san_ ’.

$65 is a lot to spend on proving a point, and is this what Santana needed the job for? And if so, did she bully their boss Will into giving her an advance? Like yeah, he’s kind of a pushover and Santana always gets what she wants so… probably. She doesn’t doubt it.

So what if Quinn’s smile is so big it begins to hurt her cheeks. And so fucking what if she cinches a knot on the bag and throws it down the hallway garbage chute without a second thought.

Their room smells like roses for the rest of the week, and Quinn dreams of gardens and plums every single night.

* * *

Santana buys her another enormous arrangement (more cream hydrangeas, but also mauve peonies and white snapdragons and lambs’ ear) and a really, really, really pretty ring when Quinn turns twenty.

There’s a tiny paper bag next to the flowers when Quinn wakes up, and the longest note yet.

_not proposing, don’t get your hetero panties in a twist. just something i saw at the flea market, figured you’d like it with your obsession with the cosmos. happy birthday, quinn. love, san_

When did Santana start making the shift over to ending her post-its with love? It’s fine, she probably means it platonically, in that girl friend kind of way. _Two_ words. Because Quinn Fabray is a devout Christian woman with absolutely no desire to combine said words. She goes to church every week even though her parents aren’t here to remind her, and she prays twice a day. Sometimes more, when certain… issues arise.

And Santana’s fully aware of this. Right?

Regardless, Quinn slides the ring onto her finger. It’s a dainty gold band, embellished with a tiny crescent moon, and she’s not crying okay? It’s allergy season.

This is exactly the explanation she gives to her mother when she calls five minutes later, wishing her a drunken "Happy birthday, Lucy" while her father grunts an unenthusiastic acknowledgement in the background. The birthday topic suffers in favor of them asking about her studies, her lack of boyfriend, and her eating habits, which she knows to be ranked in accordance to what they believe is most important.

Frannie doesn't greet her at all, but she supposes it was to be expected. She has a newborn son now so she's busy. Quinn understands.

It's late in the evening by the time Santana returns from lecture. The air has cooled and there's a breeze coming from the window Quinn propped open earlier in the day. They have a quiet night in, watching Legally Blonde on Quinn’s bed (“Peak feminism in modern cinema”, Santana defends when Quinn raises an eyebrow at her), splitting a bottle of wine, two empty platters of chicken tikka masala in their laps.

Santana pulls a whole six-inch round of cake from behind her back—how Quinn didn’t notice a live flame flickering behind them, or how Santana is limber enough to maneuver in such a way will forever remain an enigma. It's carrot, her favorite, and she almost cries because twenty birthdays have gone by and not once has anyone gotten her carrot cake. Her parents always bought her angel food cakes, for the name and for its low caloric value.

“Make a wish, Q,” she whispers, waving the round back and forth in front of her. Quinn shuts her eyes tight and blows, lips moving silently along to a voiceless wish. Their faces are daringly close together when she opens, so much so that Quinn can see the reflection of the wisps of smoke in dark brown pupils. “What’d you ask for?”

“Can’t tell, or it won’t come true,” Quinn says, nervously, before dipping a finger into the cream cheese icing and smearing it onto Santana’s nose.

“You ass! You did not.”

“Oh, but I _did_.”

And that’s how Quinn ends up with a mouthful of orange and white and green, complaining how Santana just ruined a 'perfectly good fifty fucking dollar cake' by smashing her face into it. They eat it anyway, with their hands, because what use is it to bring out forks when they’re already as messy as they are?

* * *

There’s an odd shift when Quinn returns from the bathroom, face free of frosting—the air is suddenly heavier, the string of lights above the window are a little bit warmer, and someone’s playing a saxophone in the courtyard. Quinn melts at the sight of Santana’s sleeping form, wrapped snugly in her duvet. She’s never seen her so peaceful and she doesn’t have the heart to send her off to her own bed.

Quinn steps out of her slippers and climbs in, breath hitching as Santana automatically curls into her, yawning a sleepy “Did you have a good birthday?” into her shoulder.

“I did. Thank you.” Her roommate nods and Quinn can feel Santana’s nose brushing against her collarbone. Santana threads their fingers together and brings their hands up, kissing the new ring.

There’s something fundamentally endearing about the way Santana is the little spoon, tucked under Quinn’s chin, filling the empty space perfectly. It’s unexpected, completely, and it throws Quinn off a bit.

“Okay. Night, Q.” Santana’s breath evens out, and she can feel the tiny puffs of air crawl across her hand. Quinn’s almost entirely certain she’s asleep, but a small “Love you” tumbles forth before her snoring sets in.

Quinn grazes her lips ever so lightly against her roommate’s knuckles. “Goodnight, Santana.”

The birthday angels or something must be working overtime, because this is almost exactly what she wished for. Quinn prays to God that the hammering in her chest won’t wake her roommate up. The sultry sounds of smooth jazz trickle through the open window and Quinn finally lets herself drift off, clutching tightly to Santana’s hand, as if this is all a dream, and somehow, if she lets go, her roommate will disappear into nothingness.

As simple as it was, Quinn thinks this is the best birthday she’s ever had.

* * *

Mercedes tricks Quinn into a surprise party the next day, banging on her door with a frantic “Help! Rachel left her flat iron on in my room and now my sheets are on fire!” and Quinn’s all “Bitch, why didn’t you call the fire department?” but rushes over anyway with a bottle of water.

The water drops to the floor as soon as Mercedes wrenches the door open. She’s blasted with the ear-splitting trumpet of party horns and shouts of “Surprise!” and “Happy birthday!” and the telltale sound and flashes of a Polaroid camera.

Her heart swells six sizes.

“You guys,” she begins, tears springing to her eyes, and then whacks Mercedes in the arm. “I can’t believe you let me think there was an _emergency_.”

“And _I_ can’t believe you thought you were gonna put out a fire with a teensy ass bottle of water.”

In retrospect, she was a bit too animated in her despair, but it was a worthy performance. Maybe she’ll convince Mercedes to switch to theater with her.

Tina comes up and nestles a plastic tiara on her head with a small, “Happy birthday, Quinn,” before backing away and joining Mike and Finn’s conversation on the bed. They're talking about video games or something, and though she knows nothing about them, she's about to head over. She likes Tina and Mike, and yeah, Finn's alright, when he's not flirting with her or Rachel. Except her path is cut short by an already inebriated Puckerman.

“Birthday drinks for the birthday girl!” he shouts, sidling up with a shot glass full of sparkly blue liquid.

Rachel leans in close, stage-whispering. “I’d advise against drinking that.”

Quinn seriously agrees. It's swirly and pretty and Quinn's read enough books about magic (under the covers with a flashlight, obviously, there was no need to alert her parents to her anti-Christian indulgence) to know that whatever is in the glass screams danger. “No thanks, Puck.”

“I get it. Santana taught me about consent,” he says, tipping it back and shuddering. “Fuckin’ party time y’all!”

Someone turns on a speaker and 50 Cent blares loudly, and she finally accepts a drink from Mike because he seems much less likely to drug her. She's pretty sure it's boxed wine, so it's very low on the taste scale, but they're all underaged so she's grateful for whomever went out of their way to provide refreshments. It's most likely Puck, but she wouldn't discount on Rachel's assistance because Pink Moscato Franzia has Rachel Berry written all over it.

“How’d you even know?” Quinn asks Mercedes. She looks at her in confusion. "That it was my birthday," she clarifies, taking a long sip and wrinkling her nose at the way it's advertised as having 'flavors of red berries and white peaches' but in reality tastes like rancid juice.

“Oh, Santana.”

She's sure her eyebrows are up to her hairline. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. She also told me to give you this.” Mercedes hands her a mug filled with little wildflowers that reads ‘Worst Roommate Ever’ on the side in bold print. There’s a yellow note on the handle.

 _sorry i couldn’t make it, be safe and tell mercedes i say hey. love, san  
_ _p.s. don’t drink anything puck tries to give you. i took one sip and woke up in the fucking disneyland parking lot last time_

She can’t help the smile that creeps onto her face.

“What’s up with you and the resident harlot anyway? I distinctly remember Rach and Tina telling me something about how you showed up to their room last week, uninvited, might I add, complaining about Santana and… jelly beans? But now it’s like a complete one-eighty.”

Those wretched jelly beans, she thinks. Never again.

“Birthday Quinn! Dance with me!” Rachel shouts from across the room. Thank God, saved by the Berry-shaped bell. Quinn polishes off the rest of her drink and heads over on tenuous legs. She feels Mercedes' gaze on her back the entire time but it doesn’t matter because Quinn’s feeling loose now, the alcohol kicking in.

They dance for a while and Quinn makes a mental note to ask about the playlist because every single song so far has been what Santana would call a 'straight-up motherfuckin' banger'. She's captivated by Mike, and while she knows that it's his actual _major_ , she didn't know it'd be so interesting to watch. He moves with such precision and grace even in intoxication, and she spends most of the night shimmying along with him and Tina. She has fun, so much fun, laughing and smiling that her cheeks begin to ache. It might be due to her sixth cup of boxed wine, which has slowly but surely started to taste better and better with every serving. But whatever, she loves her friends and she loves dancing and she really, really loves Pink Moscato Franzia.

When Mercedes brings out a karaoke machine, it doesn't surprise her. What does surprise her, however, is the fact that literally every single one of them has above average singing ability. Even Puck, who is the last person she expected to be able to carry a tune.

The party dies down around the twentieth song (mostly because Rachel’s been hogging the mic for the last twelve minutes), and her friends start filing out in pairs; first Tina and Mike, then Rachel and Finn, and Puck feels left out so he pokes his head out the door and whistles at a passing freshman, who nods at him. He cheers and walks out as well, offering the girl a cocky arm.

“He’s such a dog,” Mercedes says in disgust when he rounds the corner, “but hey, at least I’m that much closer to being twenty dollars richer.”

Quinn flips her off. But it’s getting late and as much as she'd love to stick around and chat, she has her 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. So she wraps her arms warmly around her friend, thanking her for the party.

“No problem, Quinn. Don’t think we aren’t discussing this Santana thing though.”

“There’s nothing to discuss!” she calls back, already sliding her keycard into the slot. She snorts because she punches her code in three times before the door finally creeps open.

The last of her laughter dies in her throat. Santana’s bed is unoccupied and Quinn ignores the way her chest constricts.

* * *

There's a manila envelope full of Polaroids taped to her door when Quinn arrives back from the gym.

There are so many, Quinn counts no less than thirty, but she selects a few favorites to pin to her wall: she and Mercedes mid-karaoke, she and Rachel with mouths overflowing with pink icing, Mike and Puck lifting her high into the air, and the whole group with wide smiles plastered onto their faces. It’s a timeline of Quinn and her friends getting progressively drunker.

She looks so carefree, more so than she’s ever seen herself before. More than she’s ever let herself be.

Still, she can’t help but notice the distinct lack of someone from the photos.

* * *

Quinn bribes Santana to go to some indie show at the Fonda with a bottle of Honey Tennessee and explanations of how it’s still technically her _birth week_. It turns out to be one of her greatest ideas, even though her roommate complains the whole time about how contemporary folk is a massive waste of music.

“Not everything needs pounding bass to be good, San.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she says, half-heartedly. Because they’re dancing on a checkered floor and Quinn’s arms are around Santana’s waist and Santana’s head is on Quinn’s shoulder, and Santana’s staring at her like she puts all the stars in the sky.

Quinn ponders the idea of whether or not they look like a couple.

(They do. Very much so.)

The intensity is overwhelming and Quinn has to break eye contact for a moment, glancing up at the blue and red lights that illuminate the stage, focusing on the lyrics that flow from the speakers.

_And I will go if you ask me to._

Step.

_I will stay if you dare._

Spin.

_And if I go, I'm goin' shameless._

Dip.

_Let my hunger take me there._

Maybe focusing on the lyrics wasn't the best decision, she thinks, looking back down. Santana’s even closer, their bodies seemingly melding into a single unit on the dance floor. They're no longer swaying to the beat but to their own inner rhythms when Quinn feels a particularly _post-birthday night_ feeling bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

She wonders if maybe Santana does too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your feedback means the absolute world to me. this is only the second thing i've ever written/posted (and my first multi-chapter fic) so your comments really keep me going. ty tons and tons!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> very cool, very gay (but not _really_ gay) things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> biggest shoutout to my girl august, who looks over everything i write and totally strokes my ego. you're a real one.

Happiness isn’t something Quinn can say she comes across often. It’s sort of sad, really, how she can count the number of times she can truly say she’s felt content. Like once, on Christmas, when her grandfather gifted her a worn copy of Alice in Wonderland, margins filled with doodles he told Quinn he drew when he was about her age. Or the first time she learned how to ride a bike, how she felt like she was flying as the warm September air flickered past, blunt ends of her newly-cut hair whipping around and tickling her cheeks.

She keeps these little moments under lock and key in the treasure trove of her heart, unwilling to let them see the light of day too often, fearful that they might lose value if she thinks of them too much.

Lately, the top three—judging the book and the bike right out of contention—seem to be centered around her roommate and Quinn can’t help but think of them every hour of every day.

Number three: her and Santana’s first shared shift.

It began as any other morning did, with an iced matcha, an almond croissant, and a post-it reading ‘ _can’t wait to see the great quinn fabray in action. love, san_ ’. The afternoon went on normally as well, practicing lines with Rachel, who would giggle when Quinn did something particularly over-the-top. This, in turn, would make Quinn smile, because despite her extreme verbosity and general Smurfness (Santana’s words), Rachel really does have a contagious laugh.

But when 7:00 p.m. rolled around and Quinn met Santana at the lifeguard stand, the emotion snuck up on her.

The sun had begun its steady descent over the horizon, splashing the city in a striking palette of pinks and yellows and oranges. Sunsets in LA had quickly become one of Quinn’s favorite things, and the fact that they came every single day? She thought of herself lucky to witness it on a regular basis. Santana claimed it was the smog that made them the way they were. Quinn felt it weird to thank pollution for such incredible sights, but she did all the same.

Will would have a field day if he ever found out they left their post, but as Quinn sat between Santana’s warm thighs and as their legs hung languidly in the water, she couldn’t bring herself to mind. There were only two swimmers left in the pool anyway, and they each had a clear line of vision of the both of them.

The number of patrons had dwindled significantly as the nightly chill started sinking in, and Santana had taken strands of Quinn’s hair and started weaving them into an intricate pattern. Quinn felt every brush of Santana’s knuckles against the back of her neck and she shivered, citing the drop in temperature as an excuse.

But there was a twitch in Quinn’s chest and a tingling in her fingertips that couldn’t be attributed to the cold. Happiness itself didn’t take effect until Santana started humming a sweet, solemn little ditty (that Quinn would later Google and learn it was Amos Lee’s “Arms of a Woman”). This turned into her singing out loud and Quinn _felt_ something deep and foreign in the pit of her stomach. Santana had a nice speaking voice already with its slightly raspy quality, but her singing voice? Quinn thought it was something otherworldly. It was full, rounded, effortless. 

It was beautiful.

When Quinn began to cry, Santana’s fingers stilled. And when Quinn insisted she was fine, Santana resumed, albeit much more delicately than before. Suddenly, Quinn became aware of both their physical and emotional proximity—all things she so achingly lacks, things she’d never thought she’d have, especially not with her roommate, who had been such a thorn in her side at the start of the quarter.

But there she was, sitting in the space between Santana’s knees, with Santana’s fingers in her hair, and there _it_ was, plain as day.

Number two: her twentieth.

Birthdays were a big deal in the household. Well, not Lucy’s, no, because she was an embarrassment to the Fabray name, but rather Frannie’s, who ate up the extravagant celebrations their parents threw for her. Quinn would spend most of the day either holed up in her room or spying from the banister, watching as the hundred or so guests gave her sister their congratulations, like aging itself was an accomplishment.

Quinn didn’t have her first party until she turned fourteen—post-surgery, post-weight loss, post-dye job. Her parents paraded her around like a prized show pony to twice the number of guests that fluttered around her, taking a lock of her newly blonde hair and announcing things like “Oh, Lucy, you look so lovely now”, which made Frannie stomp on her toes when their parents weren’t looking. Quinn expected to feel good, to feel loved, to feel adored, but in her two sizes too small, overly-starched dress she felt everything but. She couldn’t comprehend why people wished her a _happy_ birthday because she always felt the furthest from it during the day.

Except, this year, Quinn truly understood what the greeting meant, as her limbs tangled with Santana’s in her tiny dorm bed, stomach full of carrot cake and heart full of happiness.

And good ol’ number one, something happened mere moments ago: dancing with Santana.

The way the deep jade of her dress contrasted with her olive skin as they spun on the checkered floor. The way the lights flickered across the features of her roommate’s face, and how Santana had held her close, much closer than Quinn’s ever been held, much more intimately than she ever anticipated being with another person. Even hours later, the feeling of Santana’s arms draped loosely around Quinn’s neck still remains, the phantom weight of them lingering as their door shuts behind them with a click.

“I’m gonna shower, yeah?” Santana says, already stripping and wrapping a towel around her torso.

“Oh yeah, um. Me too.” Quinn steps out of her heels and into flip flops, but keeps her dress on, choosing to throw her towel over her shoulder as she collects her toiletries.

They make their way silently to the bathroom, sneaking stolen glances that result in Quinn blushing and Santana grinning, knuckles grazing every so often with how narrow the hallway is.

Steam surrounds Quinn as she undresses, hanging her clothes on the hook. She takes out her toiletries and lines them neatly on the floor, while the shower in the next stall over springs to life. Santana’s voice rings out, humming a familiar tune. It’s only the second time Quinn’s heard her sing and is it just as beautiful as it was the first. Until she recognizes the chorus as the song they were dancing to earlier, and it becomes more beautiful.

She’s about to step under the spray when Santana clears her throat.

“Hey, Q?”

“Yes?”

“I forgot my stuff. Can I borrow yours?”

Quinn laughs. Did she really expect anything different? “Sure. What do you need?”

“Shampoo, conditioner, soap. And face wash, if you have it.”

“Santana, how did you forget literally everything you need for a shower?” Her response is light-hearted, already handing the items over the wall. “Did you bring _anything_?”

“You are a distraction, Quinn Fabray,” she whines, “but yes, for your information, I did bring a toothbrush. I believe in the importance of good dental hygiene.”

(God, she’s almost as cute as she is careless.)

“That statement was straight out of the Rachel Berry Handbook,” Quinn says, finally beginning her shower routine.

Santana gasps, all kinds of offended. “You take that back, bitch.”

And since _that_ reaction was more Santana than anything, Quinn takes it back.

Twenty minutes later and they’re in their respective beds. Quinn’s toying with her fingers anxiously and Santana’s looking everywhere but into Quinn’s eyes and it’s so quiet that they can hear sirens in the distance. It’s as if they’re both waiting for something, but what that something is, Quinn doesn’t particularly know.

Except, maybe, she does.

Because there’s a charge in the atmosphere that hasn’t left since her birthday and a palpitation in her chest and a clamminess in her hands. Quinn’s missed a lot of opportunities in her lifetime due to her cowardice or her pride, which may be contradictory, but they’re all missed opportunities anyway. And she’ll be damned if she lets this one get away too.

“Hey, San?”

There’s a shaky breath, a rustle of sheets, and a small, “Yeah, Q?”

“Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?”

“Sure.”

Quinn scoots over and Santana slides under the covers, turning to face her. It’s weird to think that Santana looks more comfortable in Quinn’s bed than she does in her own. And maybe, just maybe, Quinn is more comfortable in her bed with Santana in it. Even though it’s only happened once before and twin XLs are clearly not made for two people.

“What’s got you all smiley?” Santana asks, which only makes her smile wider.

Quinn buries her nose into the crook of Santana’s neck and answers, “You smell like me.” Like honeysuckle shampoo and apple blossom body wash. It’s so familiar but not because there’s an underlying, specifically Santana scent that coalesces with hers that makes Quinn’s head spin.

“Oh,” Santana says in a voice so quiet, completely lacking that bold timbre Quinn’s become accustomed to over the quarter. It’s not to say she’s any less fond of this subdued version, though it does rattle her a bit. It still doesn’t stop the way her roommate’s name tumbles from her lips.

“Santana?”

“Hmm?”

“You can kiss me if you want.” It comes out so faintly that she’s afraid Santana missed it. Which is fine. Whatever. Quinn doesn’t have the courage to repeat herself.

But she _did_ hear. “Is that um—is that what you want?”

It’s so endearing. Santana Lopez is never nervous. They’ve lived together for seven weeks now and she’s never seen her roommate this vulnerable. Their faces are so close, much closer than Jesus probably likes, but not close enough for Quinn. So she just nods, fingertips sweeping along Santana’s clavicle, praying that this gamble will pay off.

* * *

Oh, Quinn thinks, so soft. So delicate. So minty.

It’s an easy exploration for now, just lips against pouty, full lips. There isn’t any tongue, not yet, because Santana hasn’t increased her speed and Quinn’s not really sure what the rules are with respect to, like, girl-on-girl make out sessions. And she’s fine letting her roommate take the lead on this one.

More than fine, in fact, because Santana’s fingers are threaded into Quinn’s wet hair. Hers are splayed against the back of Santana’s neck and her thumb is skimming her roommate’s cheek.

All of her senses are on overload as they push and pull. There’s a smoothness to Santana’s body Quinn’s never encountered before, and she can’t help but slide her legs against Santana’s over and over again. It’s like that fresh shave kind of feeling, when you get under warm, newly-laundered sheets and the contact is the silkiest sensation in the universe. But better. A hundred times better. Quinn thinks she may have acquired some sort of superhuman tactile ability, because she swears she can feel every single one of the downy hairs on Santana’s skin, every single fiber of Santana’s eyelashes fluttering against her cheek, every single _everything_.

A low moan erupts from the back of her roommate’s throat as Quinn runs her tongue between the seam of Santana’s lips. Her mouth parts slightly and Quinn boldly introduces her tongue into the equation.

Oh. So hot.

She begins to internally reprimand herself, because she is a grown woman with a rather extensive vocabulary, and all she can think of is… hot? But her thoughts are immediately reduced to static because Santana’s tongue brushes against the side of hers and, oh, _hotter_.

Now, she may not be as knowledgeable as her current partner is with such experiences, but she has indeed made out with people before. This is another thing altogether, she thinks, as Santana’s pointed tongue flicks against the roof of her mouth. A tongue that has annihilated Quinn from the very beginning with its razor-sharp scorn. Seven weeks later, it’s still breaking her apart, though in a way she never would have expected.

Quinn didn’t think kissing could be like this. She didn’t know _anything_ could be like this. A hunger rages within her.

And so she may not be super okay with Santana taking the lead anymore because she realizes Santana’s actually letting her set the pace, which is actually quite sweet and thoughtful. It’s the opposite of the chatter Quinn’s heard about her roommate’s excursions, that are more “hit it and quit it” than anything. Not that one can really trust what the rumor mill churns out these days, but hey, even the most outlandish gossip stems from somewhere.

It isn’t like she wants to hit nor quit Santana, but Quinn's a bit single-minded to the point of mania, sometimes. She doesn’t want to rush through this (there’s a voice in the back of her head telling her to savor every minute, every sweeping kiss, every delicate touch), but right now the pulse of her heart sounds remarkably like _more_ , _more_ , _more_.

Santana treats her as if she’s made of crystal, with gentle caresses that float across her body with the slightest amount of pressure. She understands her roommate’s reservation. There are many times in her life where Quinn felt she had been forged by an unskilled glassmaker but this is not one of them. If anything, she feels like she has something to prove.

She’s not fragile, not skittish, and she’s definitely _not_ going anywhere.

So Quinn pushes up on her forearm, separating them for a moment, before letting her weight fall atop of her roommate’s body. She brings their lips together again and Santana’s hands settle on her waist, tracing lazy circles into the exposed skin where Quinn’s shirt rides up. They’re entirely parallel now—their shoulders, their ribs, their thighs, their ankles slotted together. It feels good, it feels right, it feels like everything Quinn’s ever wanted in her whole life, fit into a single, delicious moment.

If God were to smite her down right this second, Quinn thinks she’d be okay with it. It would be worth dying for.

Because Santana kisses her and kisses her, and Quinn forgets a time when her roommate’s lips weren’t interlocked so blissfully with hers. Time seems to do this crazy thing; looping around and back, up and down, before stopping completely. Quinn doesn’t know how long they’ve been doing this, could be five minutes, could be five hours, but what she _does_ know is that Santana’s making these needy little sounds that blaze an inferno straight down to her core. She makes a mental note to email Agent Provocateur, because Santana’s wearing this relatively chaste pink slip (the antithesis of most lingerie she seems to own) that almost seems too pretty to take off.

Key word: almost.

Quinn urges Santana to sit up, wrapping her fingers around the satin, and gasps when it’s finally pulled over her head. Perhaps Mercedes was right: Santana really _is_ something else. Her mouth goes dry as she takes in everything her roommate has to offer; skin that glows in the moonlight, breasts that rise and fall with every breath, the impeccably flat plane of her stomach.

That ever-present insecurity rears its ugly head. While Quinn knows she’s relatively attractive now, she can’t help compare their bodies—Santana is lean where Quinn is soft, tan where she is pale, lithe where she is clumsy—and she draws back when Santana’s fingers tug at the hem of her T-shirt. Even their choices in sleepwear differ considerably.

“Whoa, hey, I’m sorry,” Santana whispers, releasing the fabric. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

It’s so decidedly unsexy, this momentary freak out, and Quinn gnaws at her bottom lip. She can’t help but feel ashamed at the potential of her nudity. Sex isn’t something Quinn can say she has often; her prior experiences with it haven’t been so great.

She lost her virginity to the captain of her high school basketball team after one too many raspberry wine coolers on Halloween. That memory is buried under an alcoholic smog, and Quinn thinks if she could recall more than the inexplicable pain between her legs the next day, it wouldn’t be much to remember anyway. Guilt overwhelmed her almost immediately when she cried that morning in the shower, as she scrubbed both last night’s Halloween makeup off her face and the evidence of her sin down the drain. Premarital relations are immoral, and her mother always told her it would only feel good if she did it with a man she loved.

So, at her old university, Quinn sought out love. It came in the form of a boy in her English Composition lecture, who listened to her theories of the world, who seemed interested enough that Quinn felt a connection. They dated the whole semester, and it didn’t hurt when they had sex, so she thought she found it. But then he left her for some pseudo-hipster who owned too many berets for it to be ironic, and well. That was that.

Quinn might not love Santana, but her roommate’s looking at her with all the concern in the world, and maybe, maybe it’s okay. That self-conscious part of her is overrun by the fact that, for some bizarre reason, Santana truly does care about her. No one else brings Quinn breakfast every morning, or throws her surprise parties, or gets a job solely to buy her flowers.

“No, I just—” Quinn shakes her head and sits back on her legs, gazing into Santana’s beautifully expressive brown eyes. “You aren’t making me uncomfortable.”

“We can stop.” While Santana’s voice has dropped low and husky and her chest is heaving, Quinn knows she’s being sincere. She knows if she told Santana no, she would stop immediately, and walk the approximate step and a half back into her own bed.

Which is why she finally admits that she doesn’t want to.

“Okay,” Santana says, thumbs rubbing hypnotic little strokes on Quinn’s knees, “you can leave your shirt on, then. I’m not picky.”

“No, you can take it off. I think it’d be better. _Feel_ better, or something, I don’t know. Oh my god, I need to shut up.” She hides her face in her hands.

It really would feel better though, Quinn thinks, because the temperature of the room seems to have increased considerably (she’s definitely making sure she gets assigned an air-conditioned dorm next quarter) and the cotton of the shirt seems itchy and tight and there’s really no need for such a barrier to impede the skin-on-skin contact Quinn craves.

Santana gently pries Quinn’s hands away from her face and weaves their fingers together. She kisses each of Quinn’s fingertips soothingly. “You’re so cute when you ramble. Because your eyebrows get all scrunched up and stuff.” Quinn makes a face, and Santana chuckles. “Yeah, exactly like that. All right, now let me take that top off, babe.”

Quinn just rolls her eyes but sits back on her heels anyway. Santana slowly lifts the T-shirt up, and the neckline gets stuck on Quinn’s head, but after a few more unceremonious tugs, it finally pops free. The shirt is tossed to some unknown corner of the room as Santana presses the lightest of kisses to her nose, and then her lips, and they both laugh. The last remnants of Quinn’s hesitance float away at the sound, and is replaced by pure, carnal want.

Maybe she can place a lingerie order before next time for easier access or something… hold up, next time? She still has to get through this first.

Quinn’s drawn out of her self-criticism because Santana’s tongue skims her jaw, sucking lightly at the skin and she curls her fingers around Santana’s shoulders. Attentive kisses travel across the expanse of her neck, her shoulders, her chest, and Santana pauses, hovering over her breast. Quinn wraps a hand around the back of her neck and draws her roommate forward, breath stuttering as Santana’s lips wrap around her left nipple while her thumb and forefinger lightly pinch Quinn’s right one.

Against her will, Quinn’s head lolls back, fingers tightening their grip as Santana nips and sucks.

Holy shit. This is why the number of tallies embedded into the wood of the bookshelf grow and grow every day.

A pang of jealousy shoots through her chest, but when Santana artfully flips them over and begins a slow descent to Quinn’s center, her brain does this odd _snap fizzle hiss_ thing and somehow she couldn’t care less about the shelf anymore. Regardless of what Santana may do in her spare time, she’s here now, with Quinn, and that’s what truly matters.

Santana takes the elastic of Quinn’s underwear between her perfect teeth, letting it snap back against her skin. It would be embarrassing, how _wet_ she is, if Quinn could think about anything other than her roommate’s proximity to where she needs her most. She’ll look back on it in the morning and mentally slap herself for the way she’s barely holding onto her libido as it is. To be fair, Santana’s laving kisses between her thighs and inhaling with such fervor that leads Quinn to assume she’s similarly affected.

But then she kisses her way back up and _wait_. This may be her first sapphic encounter but Quinn’s pretty sure Santana may have… missed something important. She’s sure that she’s made another face, something that probably looks like utter confusion, because Santana laughs a little bit before stealing another kiss. And with that, it’s her breath that’s stolen away too.

Heat builds between her thighs and she finds herself canting up against Santana’s toned stomach, seeking to ease the tension that is rapidly ruining cotton with every swipe of Santana’s skilled tongue against hers.

Her roommate grinds down on Quinn’s thigh and she smiles against Santana’s lips because the fabric of her panties are just as damp, if not even more so than her own. Her fingertips dig into the delicate skin of tan hips as Quinn holds her thigh firmly against Santana’s center. Santana sighs a breathy _Quinn_ into her mouth as she rocks, and both the sight and sound make Quinn weak. She’s glad she’s already horizontal because she’s sure her legs would give out if she weren’t. Santana’s eyes are dark when she presses a gentle hand to Quinn’s knee, signaling Quinn to lower her thigh. She frowns. She really thought she was getting somewhere with this.

The sirens are barely audible now with the way Quinn’s heart thumps in her chest.

“Tonight’s about you. It is your birth week, after all,” Santana mumbles, dragging the tip of her tongue across Quinn’s neck, sucking lightly at her pulse point.

And okay, logical. Not that any of Quinn’s other contemplations have the same opportunity, because there is nothing logical about the way Quinn’s emitting these sort of humiliating porn-like whimpers with every suck. Not that she watches porn. Because again, she’s a respectable Christian girl. Barring the current circumstances.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Santana looks at her curiously and shit, she’s gotta stop doing that.

Quinn brings a hand up to caress her roommate’s cheek, which makes Santana look at her like that again. Like, that _checkered floor swaying to indie folk_ kind of look, which could potentially have another name if Quinn had an easier time admitting her emotions.

“Nowhere. I’m here,” she says. “Hello.”

“Hi, Quinn. You okay?”

Quinn nods and kisses Santana again, slowly and passionately, reinforcing her affirmation.

“Can I take these off?” Santana questions with a plump lip pulled between her teeth, gesturing towards her underwear. Quinn nods and lifts her hips up when Santana hooks her fingers into the band, sliding them down the length of her legs.

“Oh,” she breathes out when Quinn kicks them off. She looks around anxiously; was that a good oh or a bad oh? Santana seems to sense her concern and rushes to explain. “My bad. It’s just that—Jesus. You’re so pretty.”

She feels her cheeks heating up and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh. Thank you, Santana.”

“You’re welcome.” Dark eyes are still fixated on her naked form. Quinn clears her throat because as much as she’s loving this unabashed admiration, she feels like there’s more pressing matters to attend to. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Santana asks, shaking herself out of her trance. Quinn has to stifle a giggle because she’s so turned on right now there is literally nothing else in the world she’d rather do.

“I’m sure.”

Santana reaches around to Quinn’s desk, feeling around for something before sitting back on her heels. She gathers her locks in a messy bun and wraps Quinn’s scrunchie around it, and god, if it isn’t the most erotic thing Quinn’s ever seen. Santana bends down to kiss her again, hungrily, before shimmying back, situating herself at the apex of Quinn’s legs. “You can still back out, you know. No harm no foul.”

“San, I’m sure.”

As sure as she was, nothing could prepare her for the feeling of Santana’s mouth against her core. Quinn finds herself instantly irritated by the handful of past boyfriends, with their rough, fumbling tongues and objections, but then a decidedly not rough and fumbling tongue swipes up the length of her and—

“Oh, shit, Santana. Wow. Oh, fuck.”

Okay, she really needs to read more because that was _pathetic_.

Santana hums against her, sending oh-so-delicious vibrations coursing across her body, and all the thoughts of inept men vanish into thin air. Quinn’s fingers itch to find purchase and Santana’s hand comes up to guide them into her hair. Santana dips her tongue inside and Quinn’s hips jerk up involuntarily, thankful for Santana’s foresight because she would not have known what to do with her hands. Santana takes her time familiarizing herself with Quinn’s anatomy; what makes her pull at Santana’s hair, what makes her whimper, what makes her hips rise off the bed.

It’s all too much and too little at the same time.

Long fingers tease at Quinn’s entrance and she lets her knees fall apart a bit more. Santana slips a finger in. She feels herself growing light-headed because all blood in her body has manifested itself at her very core, her circulatory system failing her perilously.

Santana murmurs a small, “Breathe, Q,” into her inner thigh. It’s incredible how attuned she is to Quinn’s needs, like they’ve been in this position thousands of times. Santana’s mouth latches on to her clit when Quinn exhales, and fuck, what was the point of telling her to breathe if she was gonna do _that_? Her eyes shut tight.

Slow strokes become faster, both tongue and finger. They both grunt as Santana thrusts deeper into her and the fingers threaded into her hair tighten their grip. Soon she’s twisting against the sheets that have now bunched up at the foot of the bed, Santana’s tongue flicking mercilessly against her clit, and _oh_.

Quinn’s eyes snap open at the sound of Santana moaning against her. Her roommate’s left arm is now pinned between her stomach and the blanket, and while Quinn’s view is obstructed, there are these very, very wet sounds coming from further south than the space between Quinn’s legs.

How is Santana doing three things at once? What kind of sexual expertise does Santana possess to be able to finger Quinn, eat her out, _and_ finger herself? Quinn thinks about doing something to help out yet she’s powerless against the sheets as Santana works her over. But also because Quinn has zero idea what she was to do if Santana let her ‘help out’ anyway.

Quinn can’t lie, this particular scenario has crossed her mind more times than she’d admit to herself—and to God, though she’s sure He knows already, with the omniscience and all that. But still, in her fantasies, she didn’t expect Santana to be such a giving, gracious lover. She predicted something hard and fast. A sexual blitzkrieg. Quinn’s seen the lines down Santana’s back after a night out, the teeth marks that bruise her neck and chest, that thoroughly-fucked sort of smile she wears before slipping under the covers and falling asleep.

(She hasn’t seen these marks in quite a while, however, and the little voice inside Quinn’s head says it might have something to do with her. It’s also saying that this is not _fucking_ , no, it’s an act of making love, and Quinn clenches around Santana’s finger at the idea.)

This tenderness doesn’t seem like her roommate’s standard modus operandi. That three-step system Santana is best known for is nowhere to be found: fucking girls well into next week, disappearing before the sun rises, and continuing on working her way through the rest of the campus. Though it probably isn’t the best time to think of Santana’s countless—well, not countless, obviously, because there are actually twenty-seven lines on the shelf right now—sexual partners.

Fortunately, the sound of Santana coming is more than enough of a distraction. Her motions falter, if just for a bit, and Quinn watches her ride the waves of her orgasm with wide, wide eyes. Fuck, is this how all women look as they come? Quinn thinks she probably doesn’t look this jaw-droppingly gorgeous in the throes of pleasure; Santana’s all wet, parted lips, eyes screwed shut, jerky hips, stuttering _shits_ and _fucking gods_ and phrases that Quinn absolutely did not learn in AP Spanish.

Santana brings her hand up to rest on Quinn’s stomach as she finishes. Her fingers are shiny and Quinn stares at the way they leave a sticky trail on her skin.

The coil in her stomach seems to wind impossibly tighter at the sight. It’s verging on painful, her muscles are taut and rigid, and she’s _almost_ there. She feels Santana’s tongue again, once vicious, incessant, still wrecking her to pieces but in a wholly different manner.

Quinn’s breathless, helpless, effectively trapping Santana between her thighs as pleasure rockets higher and higher, taking her to a place no man has, literally, gone before.

This may be the closest thing to a true religious experience Quinn’s ever felt. Hours upon hours of sitting in front of an altar has never been, and will never be, as divine as this. She thinks she may have to take another look at the Bible. Or at least reexamine the passages on homosexuality. Maybe in a different translation because if God forged women with the power to make other women feel like this, then surely, _surely_ there couldn’t be anything wrong with it.

“Santana, I’m—fuck.” The words feel like marbles in her mouth. Soon she can’t release anything other than a tiny, high-pitched series of _ohs_ because Santana crooks her finger upward and runs that talented fucking tongue over her clit.

“I know, baby.”

A minute later, Quinn's back bows and the way she prays Santana’s name, woven with that of the Heavenly Father’s, is something akin to blasphemy.

* * *

Day breaks and Quinn's eyes flutter open. Arms like pins and legs like needles and there’s a strange weight trapping her against the linens. A tan knee is draped over her stomach, a wild mane of dark hair is strewn across her pillow, and long, nimble fingers are intertwined with hers.

Santana.

And her. _Together_.

Or, more specifically, Santana’s wicked tongue and Quinn’s breathy confessions of pleasure, steeped in absolute sin. And as truly sinful as the whole affair was, she feels… surprisingly okay with the revelation. It’s cool. Everything is very, very chill.

Maybe because the sun has risen and Santana’s still molded to her side, or maybe because there’s an exquisite ache between her thighs, or maybe it’s the fact that Santana looks so incredibly peaceful while she sleeps. Gone are all traces of that trademark Santana Lopez smirk, and instead, a lazy smile is etched on her roommate’s relaxed face. She’s softer in slumber, a little less rough around the edges, and Quinn buries her nose in Santana’s hair, inhaling the scent of her own shampoo.

Santana’s forehead is wrinkled in her dreams, and Quinn thinks she’d give anything in the world to be able to see into them. They do spend much of their time together now, but her roommate still disappears on some nights when there aren’t any events scheduled on the calendar, so she remains somewhat of a puzzle. Those times are difficult, even though she doesn’t expect that Santana heed her every beck and call, Quinn likes when she’s around. She likes the way she feels around her roommate, liberated and open and fun, much like Santana is herself.

Quinn knows it may be unfair, because she hasn’t explained to anyone the reason for her transfer, and Santana’s actually quite forthright if Quinn asks her something that could potentially be considered personal.

Still, she wonders. Does Santana dream about her often? Because her roommate has made quite a number of appearances in Quinn’s own nighttime stories. Is Santana dreaming of her now? Of last night? Because Quinn certainly did, if the present wetness between her thighs is any hint.

She tugs the blanket higher, because they’re both still naked and Santana’s shivering. She lets her hands travel up and down the length of her roommate’s biceps until the skin no longer sports goosebumps. Arms encircle her waist ever tighter, cementing Santana’s position as what Quinn thinks would be a lovely way to wake up each morning.

Quinn calls out of work because she’s sore, and not because there’s a charmingly enigmatic girl snoring in her ear.

* * *

The sun blazes at its highest point in the day the second time Quinn rouses and she’s comforted by the blanket of heat. Still riding the train that is her post-orgasmic high, she smiles to herself, and turns over to press a sleepy kiss to Santana’s forehead.

(First of all, when did she become the kind of person who gives morning kisses?

Oh. Probably around the same time she woke up and didn’t immediately regret her choice of bedmate.)

The smile vanishes as she realizes there’s a distinct lack of a warm body in the space next to her. Her hand flounders pathetically against the cool sheets and her eyes snap open completely.

No, this cannot be happening.

What if she was just another one of Santana’s conquests? What if she was stupid enough to think that she was somehow different than the others? The women her roommate dates may vary physically, because Santana, it seems, has been making her rounds through all the world’s cultures.

Quinn’s had some rather awkward, chance encounters with a few girls Santana’s had relations with. But then again, the likelihood of running into her roommate’s one night stands is all but guaranteed, especially since there are at _least_ four of them living on their floor. Sometimes they look at Quinn with a sneer and a snicker, or sometimes a frown and a whisper, but negative things, regardless.

One thing’s for certain: they’re all natural tens across the board.

And Quinn? Well, her face is a culmination of some surgeon’s hands and her body is the product of hours upon hours at the gym. The intrusive thoughts make her stomach lurch.

Oh god, she’s going to have to transfer again.

 _Quinn, are you fucking dumb_? she asks herself. _You just had to sleep with the most promiscuous coed in the entire university, all while said coed is your roommate_? On the list of Quinn Fabray’s Top Ten Worst Life Decisions, this one takes the cake.

She’s mentally racking up a list of potential schools when a yellow post-it catches her attention.

_emergency britt thing. don’t freak out, you’ll wrinkle. and you’re too young and hot for that. buying you dinner tonight so don’t make plans. xo, san_

Her relief is so severe it leaves her breathless by the end of a ten second-long exhalation. Okay, so she may be a tad bit overdramatic. But hey, she’s a theater major, what do you expect? A girl loves to wreak emotional havoc on her own life. It’s fun, sometimes, when shit gets boring and her brain decides to go all fifty shades of anxious on itself.

There’s a new tick mark adorning the wood, and Quinn expected to be sort of ashamed, but she lets her fingers run over the indentation proudly. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror beside the shelf. Logically, she’s aware that her genetic makeup remains the same, but there’s a newness in the reflection. A maturity. There’s a pinkness in her cheeks, a glow to her skin, and she can’t help the smile that stretches across her mouth.

Though, a brief moment of guilt does pass through her mind. She didn’t reciprocate last night. But whatever, Quinn’s not gay. It was a fleeting moment of temptation, fueled by whiskey. They each had two shots, like, five hours prior, but Quinn’s a lightweight so it must have carried over. Somehow. Yes.

College is a time for new experiences, is it not? Is this not exactly what she wished for, weeks ago, complaining how Santana had leagues of dates at their doorstep and Quinn had no one but her right hand?

(Quinn realized the merits of masturbation pretty quickly, because even though her Sunday school teacher told everyone it’d make them go blind, she’s still here in all her mostly 20/20 glory.)

So sure, it may have been great. Amazing even. One could even say mind-blowing, but Quinn thinks it’s more of a one-time thing than anything. Santana is her roommate, and her friend first and foremost; all terms that don’t need to be muddled by the introduction of further sexual adventures. Or at least, this is what Quinn’s trying so hard to convince herself of.

In any case, twenty-eight might just be her new lucky number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to find me on tumblr @ gonegirlgang if you wanna yell about how much you love santana. i'll probably yell back.
> 
> also, i love love love all your comments. they make my heart fucking soar.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quinn expands her horizons. the other shoe drops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy september! this chapter's a 10k doozy. buckle up and enjoy yourselves.

So.

That one-time, no reciprocation mindset lasts a brilliant forty-eight hours.

It was a good plan—really, truly, it was. The details included something along the lines of ‘sweep everything under the rug’ and ‘throw yourself into your schoolwork’ and ‘try to avoid one-on-one interactions with your sex goddess of a roommate’.

See? Solid.

Quinn was wholeheartedly determined to stay committed to their relatively platonic relationship. Santana was as well. There were no lingering gazes or touches that could be perceived as anything more than friendly. Just another casual Tuesday night, she insisted. Yes, definitely nothing life-altering in any form.

Simple as that.

Except, you know, nothing about Quinn Fabray’s existence can ever be called simple.

So when Mercedes invites her out to the only dining hall they haven’t been to yet the night after the incident and asks her how the concert was, Quinn must have smiled suspiciously wide or something because Mercedes—the queen of everything gossip-related—gets this funny look and goes, “I smell a scandal, Quinn. Spill.”

And my god, did she spill. Spilled like a faucet with a broken handle, overflowing with details Mercedes “for sure _did not_ need to know”. She couldn’t help it. Quinn doesn’t have friends like this. Any true ones, anyway. Ones that take her out to dinner for no reason. Ones that look genuinely excited because Quinn herself is genuinely excited. Ones that just plain _listen_.

(Ones she hasn’t had sex with.)

Her past ‘friendships’ were founded on a tricky, wobbly base of backstabbing and fake smiles and aligning with each other strictly due to the fact they were at the same caliber of physical attractiveness.

But there Mercedes was, being the best damn friend Quinn’s ever had.

Which would have been great and all, if not for the way that halfway through her rehashing, the ‘gay panic’—as Mercedes so aptly put it—set in. Along with the Christian guilt that had finally caught up without the zen of orgasms to distract her. It had Quinn praying the rosary (when the calendar dictated Santana was in lecture) a record-breaking _six_ times in the span of two days. She’s positive she’s memorized both the Five Glorious and Five Luminous Mysteries by now.

Lucy never understood the story of Adam and Eve; how a single apple created the concept of original sin. Apples are the worst of the fruits, Lucy thought; she would never be tempted by something as dumb as an apple. Maybe if it was chocolate or something, she’d get it. It took her years to understand, as Quinn meets her own forbidden fruit. Disregarding the intrinsic wrongness of it all, she plucked at the branch anyway, took a bite of Santana-the-apple, and reveled in the ripe sweetness that painted her tongue. And well, we all know how that parable ends.

Her roommate, it seems, has no remorse. Not that she would, as reigning champ of lesbian activities. Truly a God-given talent.

 _Anyway_.

Quinn finds herself here, blatantly ignoring her own rule of ‘avoid one-on-one interactions’, minutely aware of the nimble hands encircling her body as she tries her damndest to concentrate on Rachel’s script. It’s dull and marginally offensive and Quinn finds herself wondering how Rachel Berry—with more vocal talent in her left pinky than anyone has in their entire body—has managed to write such an alarmingly awful thirty pages of something titled ‘That’s So Rachel’. She’s studying (re: throw yourself into your schoolwork) despite Santana’s contention that “Finals are three whole weeks away, you dork-ass UCLA nerd” and Quinn’s sighed counter of “Santana, we go to the same school. Don’t you ever study?” is met with a flick of a wrist and an offhand comment of how she doesn’t really need to.

It’s then Quinn learns that Santana, for all her partying and carelessness and that Lincoln Heights accent that comes out when she’s blackout drunk, is remarkably gifted academically. In fact, Santana’s so gifted that not only does she complete all her schoolwork while simultaneously attending lectures, she has extra time to do Brittany’s as well.

Though this isn’t to say Quinn herself isn’t intelligent, because she is. You kind of have to be as a student at one of the most prestigious colleges in the country. But she’s definitely bitten off more than she can chew. High school was a joke, she skated by on minimal effort and flirty smiles aimed at senile teachers. And her old university was on the semester system which gave her six more weeks to learn the necessary material.

So, yeah, she might be slightly in over her head right now. Juggling three lectures, a twenty-hour work week, and a regular exercise regimen isn’t the easiest thing in the world, and fine, she admits it: Santana’s influence has her slacking. Quinn's been called to answer questions five times and gotten them all wrong. It’s aggravating; she doesn’t get anything wrong.

But obviously she does now because she finds herself daydreaming about pink silk and wet hair and a body that smells like hers but is the unequivocal opposite in every other way.

“Ah, yes, that’ll do,” Santana notes, stepping back and humming approvingly.

It’s been five minutes of whatever the fuck Santana’s been doing when Quinn finally lets herself glance down. Leftover pink and gold birthday streamers crisscross the length of her torso, pinning her biceps to her sides, only leaving room for minimal forearm movement.

Feigning disinterest, Quinn runs her finger along the words Rachel’s typed out before uttering, “What was the point of all this?”

“I’m testing a hypothesis,” Santana declares in that obnoxiously unattractive yet maddeningly seductive manner only her roommate can ever pull off.

“Which is?”

“Whether or not you’re a bottom bitch who’d love being tied up. Clearly the data supports my claim.”

It’s the first time either of them have even remotely ventured anywhere close to the topic of sex and Quinn almost flinches. But she squares her shoulders, intent to show that her roommate’s crude comment does not affect her. Because it doesn’t. At all.

“You’re so full of it. I’m nothing of the sort,” she brushes off, redirecting her attention back to the script that is somehow worsening as she flips through.

“Really? How’d the other night go again?” Santana closes her eyes and throws her head back dramatically. “Oh, oh, _oh_ ,” she gasps in both an extremely humiliating and chillingly accurate impression of Quinn mid-climax. (It’s also lowkey hot but she’d rather be subjected to one of her old cheer coach’s excruciating practices again than admit that aloud.)

Quinn glares at her as she slowly unravels the streamers from her body. Santana matches her stare all the while.

That’s more or less how their second time happens, because Santana’s looking at her with that entirely too self-satisfied smirk and Quinn’s keen on disproving her stupid theory. And she does when Santana slips into an orgasm, eventually, after forty minutes of Quinn’s “baby gay virgin fingering” with the occasional helpful hints (harder, slower, a little to the left) and the helpful praise (yes, god, Quinn).

* * *

Santana asks—or, rather, demands—her to go skydiving and Quinn doesn’t even know how she ended up here, hurtling toward Mother Earth at a billion miles an hour after being launched out of a charter plane.

Right, because Santana promised her Souplantation. She’s free-falling from 13,000 feet in the air because her roommate bribed her with a _soup_ buffet.

Oh, and at least two orgasms but whatever. Semantics.

The screams she emitted while zooming through the sky don’t even compare to the ones she shouts later that afternoon with her roommate’s head buried between her legs.

Fucking Santana. That beautiful, conniving, talented little bitch.

* * *

Week eight arrives faster than everyone expects. In a fraught attempt to delay the passage of time, Santana suggests they throw a little kickback. Quinn doesn’t know how Santana got from Point A to Point B, but it doesn’t matter. It might not be the full frat party college experience Quinn was naively hungering for at the start of the quarter, yet she agrees anyway. Mostly because Santana tells her that fraternities are a socially acceptable excuse for entitled white boys to sexually harass women. And Quinn’s still very, very worried at the prospect of getting roofied. The kickback is meant to be the two of them plus Mercedes and Brittany, but somehow (Santana invited Brittany who invited Mike who invited Tina who invited Rachel, and so on and so forth) word got out and now their tiny dorm room’s jam-packed with seven of their closest friends.

Puck’s rubbing his hands together in excitement at the prospect of something called the _Lopez Especial_ , which should be a warning sign in itself. Apparently it’s a body shot consisting of chocolate syrup and peppermint schnapps and Quinn does not want to know how Santana came up with it. Soon enough, everyone’s sticky and roaring with laughter as 140 proof sugary liqueur races through their bloodstreams.

“Let’s do truth or dare!” Finn shouts, way too drunk and way too loud.

Santana twirls a shiny lock around her finger and drones, “Or, you know, we could _not_ play games that were invented specifically for bored high schoolers. Everyone knows you’re trying to mack all up on Berry over there so why don’t you get a room and make a weird Matzo Ball Dough Boy on your own time.”

Rachel yelps a “Santana! That is so uncouth!” which is true, at the same time Finn sputters a hopeless, “No, I wasn’t,” which is most definitely a lie.

“Y’all are jealous I get laid way more often than you losers do,” Santana replies, taking hold of Quinn’s hand unconsciously and brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “Daily, bitches, fucking _daily_.”

There's more than pride in reflecting in her eyes and the tips of Quinn’s ears burn. Her eyes flick over to the shelf. It’s still at twenty-eight, but she figures that Santana’s been too busy going down on her to update it. Which, like—she’s not complaining by any means.

“Cool it, Sluttana,” Mercedes says, pushing at her shoulder. “No need to remind everyone that you get down more than anyone else in the room.” Puck opens his mouth to refute but Mercedes is quick to point out, “That includes you, mister.”

Quinn mouths ‘twenty dollars’ at her because there’s only three weeks left of the quarter and he’s only made it through a third of the girls on the floor.

“She doesn’t get _that_ much more action than the Puckzilla,” he mutters, running a hand through his mohawk.

“You’d probably get laid more if you stopped calling yourself that,” Mike jokes, “and if you stopped referring to yourself in third person. It’s not cool, man.”

 _These_ are her friends. Quinn loves them, idiocy and all.

Truth or dare could be fun, she thinks, because maybe someone will dare her to kiss Santana, and who is she to deny herself that pleasure? And maybe, Quinn can dare the room to stop trying to flip itself upside down every two minutes.

“Come on, San, it’ll be great,” Quinn insists, batting her lashes and squeezing her roommate’s hand. Or at least, she tries to, because it seems she’s lost all basic motor function.

And arithmetic function as well because she’s trying to work out the conversion between proof and percentage. She must have been doing so aloud because Brittany leans in closely and whispers, “Seventy,” into her ear.

Seventy is… quite possibly… a touch too many percents.

But then Santana sighs and rolls her eyes, and Quinn doesn’t even care that she doesn’t know how to divide by _two_ , because she knows she’s won this round. Oh, sweet, sweet victory. Quinn presses her lips against Santana’s, mint chocolatey and out of habit, forgetting such actions are decidedly not common knowledge. At first Santana seems thrown off, mouth frozen, but melts into the kiss all the same.

The rest of the group, however, does not recover as easily.

Finn gasps. Rachel squeaks. Mike and Tina are too engulfed in their own make out session to notice. Brittany wolf-whistles and then goes, “I _knew_ it! Pay up, son!” while Puck begrudgingly slaps a ten dollar bill into her open palm. Mercedes takes a sip of her drink and smiles at them from behind the rim of the cup.

Surprisingly, the game doesn’t end up sexual in the least bit. Perhaps it’s because they’ve already done body shots and they’re all kinds of stupid drunk right now. Everyone is in various stages of undress. Quinn burns at the sight of Santana’s smooth skin. Her fingers itch to run over the definition of her stomach and they’re partway to their destination when she catches Santana’s gaze. They freeze, lingering dumbly in the air, when she follows the invisible trail to Brittany’s mostly-nude body.

Brittany Pierce is beautiful with her ice blue eyes and untroubled smile. Brittany Pierce is Santana’s best and oldest friend. Brittany Pierce is wearing this really, really cute pink polka dot bra. Her tiny denim shorts are undone and a strip of lace peeks through the zipper.

White-hot jealousy floods Quinn’s soul. Her drunken fingers wrap possessively around a toned bicep, hard enough to press bruises into Santana’s arm. Her stare breaks and she turns to look at Quinn, expression flooding with lust instantaneously. Yes, much better, she thinks. Everything is fine. Both her and Santana’s grins turn predatory and Quinn’s halfway to kicking their friends out of their living quarters when truth or dare begins.

Oh well. Next time.

Mike and Brittany are challenged to a dance-off (Brittany wins), Rachel and Mercedes are challenged to a diva-off (Rachel wins, but only because Mercedes couldn’t stop giggling the entire time), and Brittany challenges Santana to do a roundoff back handspring back tuck over one of the common room armchairs.

Quinn’s mouth falls the fuck open as all of them drunkenly migrate out of the door. Puck and Finn maneuver the armchair to an empty stretch of the hallway. Santana’s already stretching in preparation when Quinn yanks her aside.

“Ow, the hell, Fabray? Almost popped my shit right outta the socket. Would not be conducive to this stunt,” she says, rubbing at her shoulder. “Damn Britt. Girl’s tryna kill me.”

“You cheer!?” How did she not know this? She and Santana have nothing in common. So this is huge. The admission that she also was a cheerleader is on the brink of springing forward from her tongue, but then she realizes that if she tells Santana, she'll have to explain why she doesn't do it anymore. And then she'll have to explain the reason for her transfer, and then Lucy, and then—no. Just, no. Think of other things, she tells herself, like Santana in a UCLA blue and gold cheer skirt.

Good, yes.

“All through high school and part of freshman year. Got kicked off the squad though. Went all Lincoln Heights on my coach,” Santana answers rather dismissively, bouncing on the balls of her feet, pumping herself up. “Gimme a kiss for good luck, Q, god knows I’m gonna need it. Haven’t done one of these in a hot sec so have an ambulance at the ready.”

And since Santana the cheerleader has her mind absolutely buzzing with newfound fantasies (and _positions_ ), she gives her a chaste peck and pre-dials 911.

Santana’s failure is to be expected, if the way she zig-zags down the hall is any indication. Or maybe it’s Quinn zig-zagging herself because the walls are spinny and her eyes don’t quite work the way they normally do. But all the same, everybody thinks she’s going to make it.

News of the dare has spread and has thus garnered the attention of at least thirty additional onlookers. She’s sure that most of them have emerged because she and her friends are pretty much naked, but also because no one wants to pass up the chance to see Santana Lopez do the impossible. The entire floor goes silent, breath held in anticipation as Santana performs a spectacular roundoff back handspring combination in perfect form. The athlete in Quinn grows veritably aroused. Santana’s feet plant right at the base of the couch and she launches herself into a back tuck, and—dear Lord, she’s already halfway over.

Except she miscalculates the angle of her trajectory and her ankle clips in the arm rest and she eats shit in the middle of the hall.

A collective gasp rings out from the crowd. And then crickets. Fucking _crickets_.

Brittany goes white in the face. “Oh no. No no no,” she croaks, voice saturated with concern and regret. “San? Crap, please don’t be dead.” Brittany takes several tentative steps towards the armchair while everyone else stays firmly rooted to their spots on the floor. Quinn’s thumb hovers over the call button.

Approximately four seconds later, Santana coughs and mutters, “I’m alive, B, don’t worry.” She throws two thumbs up then lets out the most ridiculously unattractive snort ever.

“Thank god. Your parents would _so_ kill me if I killed you,” Brittany says, hauling Santana up to standing.

“Anyone catch that on video?” Santana half-asks, half-groans. A few kids nod. “Sweet, put that shit on the UCLA Snapchat story. Mama’s gonna be fuckin’ famous.”

Then Quinn’s on her knees, tears leaking out of her eyes and the dorm is hollering and Santana laughs along with them, unfazed. The unbridled confidence she exudes is just so _sexy_. It’s more life goals than wife goals, though, Quinn argues to no one in particular. Except maybe the big guy upstairs.

Later that night, the bed dips beside her as Santana slips under Quinn’s duvet, bitching about how sore her ass is. Quinn’s quick to point out that, again, “Your bed is three feet away, you whiny baby”. Santana’s even quicker with a “Higher thread count, hoe, you know this”. Whatever other complaints Santana has freezes in her throat because Quinn straddles her, tugging her shirt off, moaning low into Santana’s ear about how she’ll really give her something to be sore about tomorrow.

Her eyes grow large as Quinn shuffles down the length of her body before settling in between her legs. Quinn’s somehow convinced herself if she doesn’t go down on her, it isn’t actually gay. It’s more like… masturbation. On another woman. If anything, it’s gay-adjacent.

But fuck it, Quinn’s drunk and thinking about Santana in a little cheer skirt and how she smells so good—even better than mint and chocolate, and that was recklessly delicious—that her fingers drag down the lacy underwear before she’s really aware of what she’s doing.

“Are you clean?” she slurs, impressed by her own clarity.

“Most people would be highly offended by you asking that, Fabray. But yes, I go to the health and wellness center once a week to get tested. All the nurses know me by name now.” Quinn can tell Santana’s trying real hard to keep herself cool and collected but the dilation of her pupils are a dead giveaway.

She shuffles down the length of the bed and settles in between Santana’s open legs, running a tentative finger through the wetness. She hears the sharpest intake of breath. Her touches grow a little braver, a little more concentrated, driven by those damn _Lopez Especials_.

“You are so fucking extra sometimes, Santana.”

“More like preventative. I can break out a complimentary dental dam, though, if you want?” 

Quinn just rolls her eyes and spends the next hour eating Santana out until her jaw locks. And that’s kind of how it is for a while—the other bed goes unused, Quinn wakes up with a mouthful of hair and an elbow in her side, and more often than not, they don’t wear any clothes.

Whatever. Laundry’s expensive anyway.

* * *

A yellow sticky note is tacked to her nightstand when she wakes up—head splitting open with the potency of her hangover—accompanied by two Advil tablets, another iced matcha, and a stupid dental dam.

_for next time. xo, san_

The way every thread of her sheets smells like Santal 33 (which her roommate only bought because “the first five of the letters are mine, it was practically _made for me_ ”) is the only reason why Quinn doesn’t throw the plastic-wrapped latex across the room.

* * *

Puck invites them over for a joint or three on a random Wednesday night, spewing something about needing to chill before finals. Quinn accepts when Santana tells her to trust her, which is insane because she actually jumped out a plane for this girl. A goddamn plane.

Whatever hesitation Quinn had evaporates as soon as long fingers expertly pinch, roll, tuck the tiny green buds into the paper and a tongue darts out to lick the inseam, sealing it shut with practiced finesse. Long fingers that just so happen to have expertly pinched, rolled, and tucked into every inch of Quinn’s body every day that week. Sometimes twice, if they find the time. Sometimes thrice, because Quinn _makes_ the time. She’s quite proud of herself. Sure, she’s aware of Santana’s bedroom stamina but Quinn never thought she was the insatiable type. But she’s never had sex with someone as adept as her roommate is and she keeps coming back and keeping up.

“Babe, you ever heard of shotgunning?” She’s entirely captivated by Santana’s master joint-rolling skills that all she manages to do is shake her head minutely. “I know you’re new to this and I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed. It essentially lessens the effect of the high but the delivery is… unusual.”

“I’m down.” Because, again, immediate trust. She doesn’t know why the boys are staring at them with rapt attention but she doesn’t have time to dwell because Santana’s wrapping her lips around the joint and taking a heavy drag. Quinn watches as the end singes a bright orange. Santana exhales and Quinn’s amazed at her lung capacity because the whole room fills with thick clouds.

Her hand comes up involuntarily to play with the smoke.

Santana’s already a generally relaxed person—unlike ramrod-postured, anxiety-riddled Quinn—but her shoulders slump lower and lids slide halfway closed. Quinn feels the unerring need to be on that level.

“Come here, Q.”

She follows and Quinn tells herself it was a choice and not Santana’s inherent magnetism drawing her closer. Santana takes another hit, chest expanding to the fullest extent. Curls slip from her mouth as she instructs Quinn to open up. Suddenly Santana’s full lips are pressed against hers, her thumb and forefinger pulling Quinn’s mouth open a tiny bit more, and smoke rushes into her lungs. She wants to cough—the acrid fumes sear her insides—but Quinn will let nothing, absolutely nothing, stop this moment.

“Oh, fuck,” a voice says from beside them and through her periphery she witnesses three sets of awkward _readjusting_. Quinn can’t even bring herself to care because Santana’s pornographic mouth is doing wonders against hers. They’ve moved past innocent shotgunning and are now full-on tonguing in the boys’ dorm room.

Puck bitches, “Yo, quit hogging. It’s called puff puff pass for a reason. You’re gonna let it burn out.” Santana finally pulls away and Quinn surges forward in an embarrassing effort to reconnect.

“Suck my dick, Puckerman,” she says, but blindly hands him the joint anyway, gaze locked on Quinn’s. Her dark eyes are hooded, her lips are red, and there is no doubt in her mind that Quinn looks just as affected. Santana’s tongue pokes out to lick her lips before asking, “Was that okay?”

An effortless smile stretches across Quinn’s face and she laughs, nodding.

Two hits later, Quinn thinks this is what enlightenment must feel like—Rachel’s voice bouncing around in her head because she has this bizarre thing about being in every single club, even Bruin Buddhists—and Quinn’s so fucking _euphoric_ , sucked out of this dimension and thrusted into a new life.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Santana whispering to Puck conspiratorially. Every so often they glance at her with matching dopey smiles, until Puck says something to Santana that makes her punch him square in the shoulder. They roll around on the floor in a weird wrestling match after that, Finn and Mike both give each other looks that say something like ‘not this shit again’, until Santana has Puck trapped under her with her fingers wrapped around his wrists. She’s slapping him with his own hands and it’s so funny because she’s chanting, “Why you hittin’ yourself?” over and over again.

How many times has something like this happened before? She didn’t even know Puck and Santana really _knew_ each other prior. But of course they do, she thinks, because Quinn is well-versed in rivalries and really the number one rule is: know your adversaries. And in the game of Who Can Bang the Most UCLA Undergrads?, it’s Puck and Santana who are leading the pack.

It’s cute though, this childish spectacle. She assumes the two are actually sort of friends underneath the competition, if Mike and Finn’s knowing looks are any testament. Quinn feels a strange pang of jealousy strike her deep in her chest. Although all her friends have made a grand effort to include her in all of their activities, she knows she hasn’t been around long enough to fully bond with each of them.

She thinks she’ll have to try a bit harder.

After a full three minutes of Santana vs. Puck grappling, pity runs through Quinn’s system. She nudges Mike in the shoulder and instructs him to haul Santana off the poor guy because Puck’s way too high to defend himself and Santana’s awfully relentless in her teasing.

Puck puffs out his chest a bit, in effort to maintain all his machismo, as Mike’s arms loop around her roommate’s tiny waist before dumping her unceremoniously in Quinn’s lap.

“All in a night’s work,” Santana says, wriggling in an effort to make herself more comfortable. Quinn lets her. Not like her limbs are working correctly right now anyway. “Now, as victor, I think I deserve a prize.” Quinn leans in but diverts her lips at the last second, catching the corner of Santana’s mouth instead.

“I don’t know, Santana, looks to me like Puck got a couple good pins in,” she lies. Puck got absolutely _nothing_ in, but it’s kinda fun when her roommate gets all cocky and riled up.

Santana scowls. “He wishes,” she says, and then sticks her tongue out at Puck who fires back, “Wish you’d hop on this dick again, Lopez,” in return.

“Been there, done that. Pretty sure that splinter is the sole reason I’m one hundred percent a lesbian now.”

“Splinter? Yo, fuck you, Santana.”

Sparking up the last of the joint, Mike objects, “Please, no more penis talk. Didn’t anyone teach you guys the importance of manners?”

Quinn is so far past stoned she has zero ability to process this conversation. Even if she could physically talk—could say something about how she didn’t know Santana ever slept with men because literally what the _fuck_?—the thought of Santana and Puck having sex makes her want to vomit all over the carpet. So she keeps her mouth shut.

Oh, the carpet. Feels good under her palm. She uses her fingertips to twirl the fibers into points and laughs when she looks up and Santana’s kind of just staring at her in the way that she does a lot of the time. Finn's also staring, but he does that a lot too. Why does everyone keep staring at her?

In the end, the juvenile skirmish is all but forgotten and Quinn has fun, a bit too much fun, because Santana and the boys perform a blazed striptease to Joan Jett’s “Do You Wanna Touch Me”. It starts out hilarious because Puck and Mike and Finn are moronically gyrating, grinding their hips into the air, looking like off-brand Chippendales.

Quinn can’t move off the floor, which is fine, because Santana’s singing into her ear, husky and deep.

 _Beggin’ on my knees,  
_ _Baby won’t you please,  
_ _Run your fingers through my hair._

She gives Santana an A plus for commitment to the craft; she really _is_ on her knees, thrashing her head and shaking her enticing ass wildly to the beat. Quinn’s slinkier now. Loose. Uninhibited. She follows the song's instructions as well, threading her fingers through Santana’s ridiculously gorgeous hair. What is her conditioning routine? Quinn needs to know. Maybe Moroccan argan oil.

But it starts getting… less funny or whatever… when Santana starts to dip dastardly low in her lap, breasts barely covered by a shitty excuse for a bra. Quinn all but whisks Santana away, dragging her bodily across the hall to the privacy of their own room, unwilling to give the boys another free show. She’s already committed two acts against God tonight; she isn’t sure if exhibitionism is one too but Quinn’s not going to take that chance.

Puck, the little fucker, has the absolute gall to call out “Use protection!” as the door shuts behind them.

And Santana, an even bigger little fucker, waves that dental dam back and forth in front of her face until Quinn tosses it into the garbage.

* * *

Thirty minutes later Quinn’s still dazed from two consecutive orgasms and a residual high, whining about being super duper hungry. Santana smiles and flips the sheet off, picking up her bra and panties from where they’ve been tossed on the floor before slipping them back on.

“Hey, where are you going?” Quinn struggles to say, cotton-mouthed. Her tongue feels heavy and no matter where she puts it, it feels so big and so uncomfortable. She settles for smacking her lips a couple times. Jesus, she’s so thirsty.

“You’ve got a mad case of the munchies, Q. I’ll be back,” Santana says, kissing Quinn on the nose, “so don’t go anywhere.”

Like Quinn could even go anywhere if she tried. Her muscles are locked from coming way too hard and she’s way too fucked up to even see straight. The next twenty minutes are spent staring at the moon and the stars. How they seem like they’d be good friends. The sun is a star and Santana is like the sun—scorching and intense and radiant and really, really great at warming Quinn up every day. Santana’s ring on her finger seems to emanate heat and Quinn blinks at it for a while before her stomach growls again.

Shit, she’s starving. Quinn thinks she’s never been this famished before. She fumbles around her phone a bit, trying to text her friends to bring her an ice cream sandwich or a dozen, except her thumbs are doing this really peculiar thing? And all the words are wrong on the screen and Quinn gets frustrated, because she prides herself on good grammar but all the message currently says is: _Mercedes, ice cream sandwich, please now and thank you kindly._

And apparently, she also texted Santana, because she gets four texts in rapid succession.

 _brb baby  
_ _hold on did you just write me a fucking haiku  
_ _lmfao highku  
_ _get it?_

Quinn scrolls up to read her original messages.

 _Santana, my girl.  
_ _Please come back, I miss you now.  
_ _Hungry like a wolf._

Five, seven, five. Quinn laughs. She really, unintentionally wrote a haiku.

She’s still laughing when Santana returns with a plethora of takeout. She tears her clothes off again as soon as the door closes, seemingly offended with the fact they were on in the first place.

Two months ago, Quinn would have never known anything more fascinating than long legs and shiny hair and bronzed skin. But now there are wonderful breasts and a lean stomach and, well… 

She mumbles something like “Not hungry for food anymore, hungry for pussy”. Santana cackles, because “God, Quinn, did you really just say _pussy_? You naughty girl, you,” which makes Quinn shudder and Santana’s eyes light up. Santana drops the food on her own bed, which has now become the designated eating spot (food eating, because Santana-eating, apparently, is reserved for Quinn’s bed only), and shuffles back against the headboard.

As much as Quinn tries, and she really does, her tongue is dry and uncooperative and Santana’s not coming, and she gets upset with herself when her stomach rumbles again. So annoying. But Santana pushes the hair from Quinn’s forehead and tells her it’s okay, and even though she sounds like she really means it, Quinn crosses her arms and huffs indignantly and groans, “No, I can _do_ it.”

“You wanna Planet Earth II?” Santana asks, shutting her legs and opening her laptop. “It’s the best to watch while high, pinky promise.”

Animals. Quinn likes animals. They’re cute and cuddly like Santana is at night but not really during the day. During the day she’s bitchy and rude and angry, except not to Quinn anymore. To other people, like Finn and Rachel.

They’re on their second episode when Quinn glances over at her roommate who is currently keeled over in laughter, a chow mein noodle hanging out of her mouth because apparently Quinn’s David Attenborough impression is “ _so_ spot-on”. It’s kinda gross, but also kinda not, and something akin to like… intense affection… flares low in Quinn’s stomach.

It’s probably the weed, she thinks. Speaking of.

“Wait, wait, wait, Santana. Did you really have sex with Puck?”

A low, pitiful whine escapes Santana's lips. “Oh, god. You heard that?”

Quinn just laughs some more.

* * *

It has been a bad day.

Quinn slept through all six of her alarms. Santana would usually chuck a pillow at her by the time the second one went off, but as Quinn cracked her eyes open, her roommate was nowhere to be found. She had a headache, she was fucking thirsty, and she felt like her brain was ensnared in some sort of post-weed fog.

Not to mention the scarcity of, well, everything from her desk. No matcha, no lemon blueberry scone (even though Santana _promised_ ), no note. Rachel babbled all during lecture and she couldn’t concentrate on whatever her professor was talking about, she missed lunch at the dining halls by three minutes, and Will had given her a stern talking-to about “proper workplace attire” when she showed up to work in flip flops, because she couldn’t find her sneakers in her rush to get to class.

Even yoga couldn’t calm her down.

So here Quinn is, at the lifeguard stand, fucking _ravenous_ , adamantly cursing the sun for the way her skin tints pink under the rays. She’d reapplied SPF twice already but the sun decided it was a good day to be resolute and punishing and breeze past the barrier. Two years and she’s out of this scorching city forever, she thinks. Quinn should not have to include sunscreen in her monthly budget.

The fact that Santana comes sauntering up forty minutes past the start of her shift, yelling, “Yo Fabray! I need to get the fuck outta LA for the weekend. This school’s shit bogging me down and I need to relax,” makes everything worse.

A swimmer halts mid-stroke and gawks at them. Santana gives him the finger.

“Was that really necessary, San?” she asks, as the boy paddles furiously, white water bubbling as he kicks away. “You’re almost an hour late. How have you not been fired yet?”

Santana shrugs. “He disrespected my girl.”

Quinn scoffs, because she is fiercely independent and doesn’t need a man.

Or a woman.

Or a Santana, specifically.

“I’m not your girl. And I’m pretty sure that gesture was directed at you, exclusively.”

“Not what you said in your text message last night, babe,” Santana quips. “Anyway, I gots to get my groove on somewhere outside of this clusterfuck of a university.”

Quinn doesn’t even want to know what sort of things her roommate does for stress relief. Most of the activities she enjoys revolve around sex, at best, and misdemeanors, at worst. “I’m not in the mood for climbing up the Hollywood sign or breaking into random celebrities’ homes or what the fuck ever your idea of quote unquote, relaxation, is.”

“You’re such a killjoy.”

“And you’re bordering on a felon, Lincoln Heights.”

“I’m choosing to ignore you because _I_ am the bigger person. You have that thing with National Parks. Let’s go camping. Joshua Tree?”

Okay, Quinn has to admit—that does sound like a very, very good idea. Finals are coming up and she’s been studying her ass off every day. Her course load has practically doubled in the last two weeks and she’s preparing herself for the worst. She feels as if she’s suffocating under a mountain of essays and study groups and textbooks. But Santana’s right, there are better places to spend the weekend than the library. Still, she doesn’t want to seem too eager.

“You? Out in the wild? Now that’s something I’d kill to see.”

“Fuck off, you down or not?”

Quinn sighs all kinds of melodramatic. “I suppose it could be fun to take a break from studying. And see how that hair holds up in the elements,” she says, gesturing to Santana’s perfectly sleek locks.

“Spend so much time with Berry and you’ll become one with her, Q. And no matter how short her plaid skirts are, those are definitely not something I see myself getting under,” Santana says, chipping at her nail polish. Which Quinn has realized to be Santana’s particular brand of nervousness. Does she really think Quinn will refuse?

It’s cute, she can’t lie. She won’t ever admit it though. Santana, willing to do something she’ll hate but Quinn will love? She’s sold.

“When did you want to go?”

The way Santana presses a tender kiss to her knee has her skin flushing an even deeper pink. Maybe today isn’t so bad, after all.

* * *

The morning of, Quinn asks Santana if she remembered to get rid of her shifts and the lack of response is answer enough.

“Santana, you have to be kidding me. I put mine up on the Tradeboard yesterday!”

“Shit. I completely forgot. I’ll do it now,” she replies, haphazardly pulling her laptop from her backpack.

“You’re never gonna get rid of them on time! Will’s so gonna fire you. You’re on strike, like, fourteen, as it is.”

“Not helping.” Santana furiously types on her keyboard and it takes all of two minutes for her to fist pump in triumph. “Got ‘em covered.”

“How in the world? I had to give Tina the answers to our homework for her to switch with me! Why do these things always happen to you?” Quinn grouses.

“I’m irresistible, babe. Get used to it.”

The trip takes twice as long as it should—Santana has no sense of direction, Quinn needs to pee every hour, and they argue halfway down the 10. Quinn calls Santana a bitch. Santana says something about how Quinn isn’t a “garden variety Mother Teresa” either. She’s beginning to think their impromptu mini-vacation was an awful idea. It’s hotter out here. It’s a legitimate desert, so of course it is, but Quinn forgot to take this into account when she agreed. She watches the temperature gauge rise steadily every ten miles.

A truce is formed for the latter half of the drive, as Santana insists on playing the _entire_ Pussycat Dolls discography, and Quinn doesn’t have it in her to stay mad as her roommate puts on a little performance for every single song. A body roll here, a booty drop there, and all traces of exasperation dispel as Quinn reflexively rolls her eyes.

(She loves it, but she won’t tell her that. Though she’s pretty sure Santana already knows, because even behind those large aviators, Quinn can tell that Santana’s constantly looking at her.

She also loves the way her dark hair whips wildly around in the wind and Quinn puts that child lock thing on the windows so Santana can’t roll them up.)

An eternity passes and the steering wheel begins to rattle as a large wooden sign welcomes them to Joshua Tree. Quinn laughs as they drive down a dusty road, because of course Santana’s too bougie to stay in an actual tent. When Santana claimed to “take care of accommodations”, she presumed she meant something like booking a campsite. But no, this is not a campsite, this is an Airstream overlooking a canyon.

It’s at this time Quinn registers she may need to stop assuming things about Santana. She doesn’t like to be wrong, and nine times out of ten, her assumptions about her roommate in particular turn out to be incorrect.

“Welcome to the great outdoors, Quinn Fabray.”

“I’d hardly call this the ‘great outdoors’, Santana. We’re… glamping,” Quinn states, pulling the rental car into the designated spot. This entire setup is nicer than their dorm room. There are fairy lights strung up on wooden posts, a fire pit surrounded by gorgeous teak Adirondack chairs, and oh my god, is that an outdoor shower? They’ve never fucked in a shower. This could be great, Quinn thinks, unconsciously licking her lips. Well worth the freeway quarrelling. Even the heat seems a tad more bearable now.

“Honey, this is basically a huge metal tent. It’s camping. This air is fresh as shit. Look, fucking stars, Q. _Stars_. So what if it has wifi?” Santana argues, flipping her sunglasses up and stepping out of the car, stretching her arms high above her head. That little strip of skin between her jeans and one of Quinn’s vintage tees has quickly become a favorite part of Santana’s body. Her mouth goes as dry as the landscape around them at the sight.

Camping or not, it doesn’t matter, because Quinn finds herself positioned at Santana’s rear later that night, pistoning her tongue in and out of her roommate’s core, in a _hot tub_ of all places. They’ve already christened every surface of the Airstream (accidentally shattering both the provided French press and a wine glass, which Santana waved off and murmured, “trust fund baby,” into Quinn’s hip bone) and the outdoor shower, which was not as enjoyable as Quinn thought it’d be.

“Yeah, like that,” Santana moans as Quinn circles her clit. She’s learnt many things over the course of their hookup-ship, namely how a) Santana’s incredibly vocal in her pleasure, b) she’s a biter, and Quinn’s pale, deliciously bruise-mottled body bears evidence of the fact, and c) after some incognito browsing, Santana is most definitely—what the internet deems—a bottom.

For all her swagger and bravado, when it comes down to it, Santana loves being under Quinn just as much as Quinn loves topping her. It’s exhilarating. She knows that her roommate is usually the dominant one, she’s heard the stories, so Quinn gets this perverse little thrill knowing she’s the only one allowed to fuck Santana this way.

This way, meaning tongue-deep in a writhing Santana as her hot, wet body hangs limply over the edge of the tub. The knuckles of her right hand are white from gripping the wood and her skin glows in the moonlight, dimming the usual bronze to a cool blue. Quinn’s absolutely mesmerized and absolutely determined to drive Santana into one of those screaming orgasms now that there’s thousands of miles of nothing but desert encompassing them.

She slips two fingers in to replace her tongue and crooks them upward. She bites down hard on Santana’s skin, relishing in the marks that are left behind. Oops. Quinn’s also learnt she’s a tad possessive during sex, as she licks and sucks and drags her teeth all over the expanse of her roommate’s ass.

“Who’s fucking you, Santana?”

“You are?” Her voice crackles with a thin layer of confusion and a thick layer of lust. Quinn slides two fingers inside her own center and fucks herself slowly. It’s not enough. Quinn needs to know, she needs Santana to know—not that there’s truly any doubt in the first place. While she typically abhors the idea that women are property, there’s something about Santana (there’s _always_ something about Santana) that makes her brain go haywire.

“Don’t be shy now. Say my name, baby.” It’s the first time she’s ever called Santana that, and the effect it has is instantaneous. She assumes it’s the same sort of consequence it had on her the first time Santana called her that in a non-placating way.

Slickness coats her hand, the viscosity different from the water that surrounds them as her roommate groans, “So. Fucking. Hot.”

“Not good enough. Tell me,” Quinn demands, “whose hand you’re backing into, like the needy little bitch that you are. Who’s fucking your brains out right _now_?” She underlines her question with a rough pinch to Santana’s clit.

Quinn feels high again; high on control and ownership and the foul words falling from her lips. The Lord is not pleased, that’s a given, but Quinn is. Oh she _is_. When she gets like this, there’s almost nothing that can stop her (not even Christian guilt), especially with the way Santana’s unraveling under her. Quinn’s never thought of herself as particularly kinky, she looks just about vanilla as she is, but Santana’s found a way to unleash that sexually repressed woman hiding beneath the cardigans.

“You—Quinn. You’re fucking me, Quinn, _shit_.”

The admission is all it takes for her own fingers to quicken inside her and she shatters, hoarsely panting Santana’s name.

“Fuck, did you come?”

“I did,” she croaks, but withdraws her fingers and dips her tongue back into Santana’s pussy anyway. “Don’t think I forgot about you though.”

Santana pushes Quinn deeper into her from behind and slams her ass back. Quinn nearly chokes on the wave that rushes into her nose. “God, you’ve gotten so much better at this. I’m so close already.”

Quinn withdraws her tongue as to not actually die from sex, hair matting on her forehead from the water. “Better than anyone else?” she challenges shamelessly, driving her fingers in particularly strong to solidify her spot.

Something dark flares in Santana’s eyes as she whips her head around and Quinn thinks she may have said the wrong thing. They haven’t spoken at all about the leagues of other women her roommate sleeps with. Quinn’s been too afraid to bring it up. Apparently there’s no fear now, possibly because Quinn may be a bit buzzed from the rosé she had Puck buy them for the weekend.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. Ignore me, please.”

“No, don’t. Best I ever had,” Santana says. “Honest.”

Best? Sure, Quinn was fishing for a compliment, but she didn’t expect one of a caliber this high. She feels a surge of pride swell in her chest. The water continues to bubble around them and the lights in the tub gleam a marvelous shade of red.

“Oh. Um, well. Good,” she blusters, slowing her strokes to a near stop. “That’s good.”

“Quinn, I need to tell you—” Santana begins, but Quinn resumes thrusting and whatever her roommate was about to say is drowned out by both the movements and the loud gurgling of the jets. There’s another flash of something in Santana’s eyes, but it’s brief and fleeting because her neck snaps back as Quinn adds another finger.

In addition to her recently discovered sex knowledge, Quinn’s learnt other things as well. Over the last two months, she’s acquired what she calls ‘Santana-senses’, based on the expressions her roommate gives. A flicker can mean anger or boredom, depending on the color of her eyes. Quinn knows to keep out of the room during the former moments or risk her body looking like the aftermath of one of her old cheer practices. Unless she wants it to be like that, then she stays. A twinkle can mean ‘let’s smoke weed on the roof of the library’ or ‘let’s try and find those UCLA underground tunnels’—either way, there will be crimes committed.

And that flash? Well, that was going to be a confession.

(Somewhere deep down, she’d known something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. Santana’s about as transparent as a window. She wears her emotions proudly and plainly, an ability Quinn can’t quite wrap her head around.)

This isn’t a time for words, Quinn thinks. While the constellations glitter overhead and Joshua Tree is bewitching, and Santana is too, and this may be the most romantic event Quinn’s ever experienced; it’s not the time.

Words complicate things. Words can ruin situations she doesn’t want to ruin. There’s a girl—a lovely, breathtaking, often pain in the ass girl—shuddering violently underneath Quinn’s body, and there is no way in Hell she’s going to fuck this up. Santana is her roommate, her _female_ roommate, and there’s only so much Quinn can do to have their relationship remain the way it is. She needs a friend more than she needs a lover, she thinks. She needs…

Santana. Quinn doesn't know what she’d do if she lost her.

There was no way of anticipating how much Santana would mean to her eight weeks ago, with her barbed comments and dangerous scowls and affinity for making Quinn’s life that much harder. But those comments turned affectionate, scowls turned into little smiles, and while Santana still makes her life harder, it’s not negative. It’s perplexing, Quinn is so perplexed; everything is new and foreign and terrifying. Those things don’t sit well with her. Quinn Fabray is ritualistic in that way—she likes to know exactly what she’s getting into.

And this thing she has with Santana? It’s the very definition of new and foreign and terrifying.

Quinn doesn’t know what to do, her chest aches with the potential of the unknown. So she focuses on what she _does_ know: the girl on the verge of splintering apart right in front of her.

For the first time Santana is silent as she comes, only letting out a single stuttered gasp that ricochets across the canyon.

* * *

The weekend glides by quickly. Quinn doesn’t know whether to be pleased or upset. Her roommate’s almost-profession is neglected in favor of normalcy and their relationship stays the same. They had gone on a few hikes over the last several days, and the way Santana’s hand slipped into hers as they made their way over the rocky paths was normal. Sex is normal, as Santana reverts back to her screaming ways in the midst of those spasming multiples.

They take cute pictures; Santana in bed as the morning light streams through the open window, Quinn with arms outstretched next to a Joshua tree (which is really nothing more than a glorified cactus), the both of them in Pioneertown, wearing stupid cowboy hats. It makes Quinn look like a lesbian ranch owner but makes Santana look like she’s on the way to Coachella. It would be infuriating if it wasn’t a tiny bit attractive.

Santana posts a photo of Quinn on Instagram, wrapped in a knit plaid blanket and reading by the fire, with the caption ‘ _nerdom never sleeps, not even on vacation — at Joshua Tree National Park_ ’.

Quinn posts one as well. The two of them, cross-legged and meditating during a sound bath at the Integraton, a dome-like structure designed by a ufologist, captioned ‘ _Found utter bliss in the middle of a desert. Which is hard to do, considering who my roommate is. Good luck with finals, everybody. Study hard!_ ’

Santana comments ‘ _fuck you_ ’ and the fact that she’s not, like, really gay (and positively not ready to be judged by old classmates and family members), is the lone reason she refrains from replying, ‘ _already have, six times this weekend to be exact_ ’.

Supposedly, the Integraton is capable of rejuvenation, anti-gravity, and time travel, which Quinn thinks is just about the coolest thing in the world. Honestly, Santana can go eat it because so what if she’s a little bit of a nerd? And so what if Santana immediately reposts Quinn’s photo to her Instagram Story and Quinn gets seven bitter, expletive-laced DMs from a few of her roommate’s ex-lovers?

(Are they actually _ex_ -lovers? Quinn doesn’t know. If Santana’s still fucking other girls on the side, that’s fine. Because they’re _roommates_.)

None of them have ever been on vacation with Santana, and she blocks them without a second thought.

Their conversations are normal. Quinn laughs at Santana’s inability to get in touch with nature, Santana quips a remark about how she’s fundamentally a ‘city girl’ and the most nature she’s in touch with are the times she sits in the grass of the quad. Or goes to Runyon Canyon. Or surfs. Quinn fantasizes about Santana in a wetsuit again—normal.

Everything is fine. Except it’s not.

Everything is complicated, and Quinn has a headache. It’s the desert heat, she insists, as Santana eyes her warily over breakfast on the final morning. Her pancakes remain mostly untouched. They’re cut into little cubes, drizzled with a touch of maple syrup, just the way she likes it, but her stomach churns at the sight.

Maybe it’s better if things were out in the open. She would certainly be able to breathe easier if they were. But it’s a daunting topic and she doesn’t know how to bring it up. Fortunately, Santana takes it upon herself to start a conversation.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not really,” Quinn replies, pushing a pancake cube around the platter. It disintegrates into the syrup and she thinks she’d love to disintegrate right along with it.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“I don’t know. Lots of things, I suppose.”

Santana leans back against the laminated plastic of the chair. The diner they’re in is straight out of the fifties; red and white booths, Patsy Cline’s “Walkin’ After Midnight” playing lazily from a retro jukebox in the corner, the neon sign at the front of the restaurant, buzzing and zapping every few seconds.

“I’m all ears, pretty girl.”

Quinn takes a deep breath. “Okay, well. About that thing you said the other night.”

“Actually, you know what. We don’t have to talk about it. I’d rather not talk about that,” her roommate says, brusquely.

“Santana—”

“Look, Q, you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had,” she begins, interrupting Quinn. “I’m not trying to fuck this up over a spur of the moment emotion.”

There’s a knot in her throat. She tries to swallow. It doesn’t work. She sips at her lemonade. It still doesn’t work. Her headache grows, pounding turbulently against her temples.

Is this not what she wanted that night, shutting Santana up with three fingers knuckle-deep, using the force of the water to strengthen her thrusts? This _friendship_? Quinn thinks, spitting the word out in her head. Her already frayed nerves strain and twitch, threatening to snap, and she grimaces.

“Quinn.”

“What?” There’s irritation in her voice and Santana balks. Quinn’s not irritated with her though, just with herself, and she apologizes.

“We’re good, right?” her roommate asks, tangling her fingers with Quinn’s over the table.

Quinn smiles, weak and weary, and takes a bite of her pancakes. “We’re good, Santana.”

The bite doesn’t go down. It stays there, lodged in her esophagus. Fitting. Santana gets up to pay the bill and Quinn spits it out into her napkin.

* * *

Sam calls on the drive back. If she’s being candid, the thought of Sam hasn’t crossed her mind for a while, and the way his name appears on her screen surprises her. Even so, Quinn picks up with a reluctant hello, followed by a couple minutes of semi-hushed conversation.

“What did Frogger want?”

Quinn taps her thumbs against the steering wheel. “He was wondering if I could go to his tonight. I don’t know whether or not I want to.”

“Well, shit, Q. Are you asking me or telling me?” Santana says, tone dripping with ire.

Quinn makes a pros and cons list in her head: Santana’s all jagged edges and belligerence. Sam is soft-spoken and kindhearted. Santana is too good for her. Sam is not. Santana is a woman. Sam is a man. Santana is complex. Sam is simple.

Strangely, it’s the last argument that fortifies her decision. There is no room for complexity right now.

“Telling you,” she says, finally.

“So you want to go to Pasadena? You know we get a maximum of two hundred miles per day, right? Anything over that is an additional charge.”

“I’ll pay the difference,” Quinn replies, chewing furtively at her lower lip. Never has Santana once brought up the issue of money, and Quinn knows she’s struck a chord.

Her roommate essentially financed the entire trip without so much as a blink of an eye, plugging in her credit card information on the Airbnb and Zipcar websites before Quinn had the chance to say, “No, let me”. Her card was swiped at every meal, every activity—even at the Integraton. Quinn tried to pay the man as the sound bath ended, but he held his hands up and told her that Santana already sneakily slipped him a couple twenties before the meditation even began.

However, she supposes it makes sense, Santana’s unwillingness to fund the detour to Sam’s. Her roommate never liked him, though Quinn’s unsure why. She’s never brought him over to their room.

If Santana has any other complaints, she keeps them to herself and stares straight ahead. The rest of the drive is silent; Quinn’s indie folk playlist doesn’t bring her the joy it used to, Santana doesn’t sing along to the songs she knows. Hours go by before the desolate, gritty roads turn into bustling LA highways, and before she knows it, they’re parked in front of Sam’s.

“I had a great weekend with you, Santana,” she says, unloading her backpack out of the trunk. “Thank you for doing this with me.”

No more words are spoken as Santana rounds the front of the car to the driver’s seat. Quinn watches as she pulls away from the curb and follows the car as far as the horizon until it finally disappears.

On Monday morning, looking at the notches in the wood that belong to her, along with a new hole in the wall the size of a fist next to her roommate’s bookshelf (is this Santana’s doing?), Quinn’s hit with the worst realization of all.

Nothing is normal, nothing is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, how’s everyone feeling? pretty sure i could live off comments alone. drop a few if you feel so inclined.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can you say _drama_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right, so this is another 10k. evidently this fic has a mind of its own. again, august, i love you, bitch. ain't ever gonna stop lovin' you. thanks a million and a half.

Timid, fearful Lucy Fabray didn't like a lot of things. Thunder, because it sounded just like the way her father did when he yelled. Bugs, because they’re so small that they can be hidden absolutely anywhere. The ocean, because there are so many things lurking in the depths.

As she grew older and became Quinn, such phobias were replaced by bigger things; sickness, failure, death, Satan. (And God, too, if Quinn was being honest. The idea that someone was constantly watching her every move, judging silently, was creepy. She read 1984 in junior high and God was kinda like Big Brother, and that freaked her out.) She might have adopted a new persona but rampant anxiety has always run through her veins.

Yet as her thumb floats over the bright blue call button, Quinn thinks that she’s never been more afraid in her life. She shouldn’t be—Santana is her best friend, her closest friend, and Quinn really shouldn’t be afraid to _talk_ to her. And they’re ‘good’ now, apparently. So she dials. She’s only semi-aware that the hangnail she’s been chewing on has begun to bleed when her roommate finally answers.

“Hello?” Santana sounds a little winded, like she’s having sex. The phone slips out of Quinn’s already jittery hand and lands with a dull thud on the carpet.

She scrambles to retrieve it, praying that the screen hasn’t shattered. “Mother—”

Santana’s voice, tinny and far-away, interrupts her curse with a “Quinn? You okay?”

“Yeah, fine!” she shouts, dusting off her phone case. No cracks. “I have something important to tell you. But if you’re too busy…?” she trails away, expecting Santana to tell her to fuck off if she does indeed have company.

“Mmm, I’ve got seminar in twenty, but I ran all the way here from the dorms so I’ve got time. Hit me.”

Quinn blows out a puff of air—partially because she’s relieved Santana wasn’t mid-coitus, partially because she’s working up the courage to tell her the news. It’s good news. Really, it is. It’s everything she’s wanted since she first set foot on campus.

“Sam asked me out.”

“Um, haven’t you been going out for a while now?”

A small part of her thinks she should have done this in person. Not that it matters, Quinn knows her roommate’s emotional tells well enough that she can almost see the expression of confusion on Santana’s face. The tilt of her head to the side, the slightly downturned lips. It makes Quinn’s throat tighten. For some reason, it’s getting harder to breathe, harder to choke out her next sentence.

This _thing_ they have? It’s unsustainable. Santana sleeps with girls like they’re disposable. Quinn cannot—will not—be tossed aside when Santana inevitably tires of her and moves on to another flavor of the week. Not when Sam treats her like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“We have, but he’s my boyfriend now. Officially.”

“Officially,” Santana echoes. The confusion is now replaced by what Quinn can envision is a look of disgust—a slight sneer, a wrinkle of her nose.

“Yeah. He’s nice, so I figured why not?”

It’s a cop-out and she knows Santana sees right through it.

Quinn is 2,241 miles away from Lima and she still feels like her parents are lurking around every corner, waiting for her to mess up. Dating Sam will be a welcome respite to their constant barrage of questions about when she’ll meet a nice, God-fearing _boy_.

It shouldn’t affect her as much. But she’s still Lucy Fabray in her parents’ eyes, and in turn, Lucy reflects in her own. A small, insignificant nobody. While Quinn’s always tried to escape their condescension—going blonde, having way too much work done as a literal teenager, getting into one of the top universities in the country—they’re convinced she’ll never amount to anything unless she’s someone else’s. _Belongs_ to someone else. It’s sick. She hates them for it.

Mostly, Quinn hates herself.

Because there is a wonderful, understanding, confident woman on the other end of the phone who makes Quinn feel everything but small and insignificant. When Santana’s around, she forgets about Lucy, about her parents, and sometimes Quinn even forgets the psalms and scriptures forever inscribed in her soul.

Her eyes flit up to the shelf and the lines make the decision for her. All thirty-four, staring her straight in the face, mocking in their proud display.

Sam’s the safe bet.

Neither of them have said anything in a while. Quinn can barely hear her labored breathing over the blood pumping in her own ears. She swallows hard, willing the necessary words to fall from her mouth. “I think it’d be best if we stop fooling around, Santana.”

“Is that all we’ve been doing? Quinn Fabray needed a quick fuck every now and then to tide herself over until a man came around and swept her off her feet?”

The look is now irate; she can see Santana’s fists clenching, her nostrils flaring. Quinn hates herself even more now.

“Santana, please,” she begs. She hopes it’s enough for Santana to stop stabbing her in the heart, even though Quinn’s wielding a knife herself. She imagines Santana’s to be sharp and polished, slicing cleanly, whereas hers is rusted and dull. Everyone knows rusted and dull knives are more dangerous.

“Do you like him?” Once again, forlorn eyes and meager frown.

“I do.” She doesn’t, not really, but she’s so far gone; her life has snowballed into an epic series of denial (of which she brought upon herself), so what’s another fib or two in the end? What’s another twist of a knife? What’s another casualty in this war?

Who’s to say she won’t actually fall in love with Sam Evans in time, anyhow?

Quinn isn’t worth it. Santana could do so much better. Sam, on the other hand… well.

“Shit, I can’t believe I almost fucking—whatever.”

Holding her breath, Quinn’s next question comes in a stilted whisper. “Almost what?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m such an idiot.”

It stings. Stings like a tornado of a thousand angry hornets. Santana’s one of the most intelligent people she knows, wise beyond her years. If anything, Quinn’s the biggest fucking idiot on the planet. She imagines a neon sign, not unlike the one at that Joshua Tree diner, those five letters flashing and buzzing over her head. _Idiot, idiot, idiot._

There’s nothing she can do except choke out a feeble, “Santana, you’re not an idiot.” When did she start crying?

“Whatever. I’m happy for you,” her roommate says, flatly.

“Don’t do that. I can hear your teeth grinding. I just—”

“Save it. Have fun with your boyfriend.”

The line goes dead. There’s a sinking feeling in Quinn’s chest, like a part of her died too.

* * *

A bottle of red wine later, Sam’s still-unfamiliar, too bulky (too _masculine_ , a little voice in the back of Quinn’s head tells her, which she wills away immediately) body collapses on top of her with a grunt.

Is this what she’s resigned herself to? A life of unsatisfying sex with a simple man? He’s gorgeous—dark blond hair, green eyes, a great set of teeth—so, really, what’s the issue? Practice makes perfect, and Sam’s body is no doubt the result of a strict training regimen, which leads Quinn to believe she can train him to be the perfect boyfriend in no time. Sexual activities included.

First, she’ll convince him to cut his hair. The Bieber look is cute if you’re a preteen. They’re in _college_ now; it’s no longer appropriate. Second, she’ll casually recommend a few books and films so that their conversations don’t solely revolve around Marvel or Avatar. Third, his parents are members of the Academy, and she’ll somehow finagle her way into some red carpet networking.

Excellent.

“Was that good for you?”

Caught up in her inner monologue, Quinn didn’t realize the whole ordeal was over before she noticed it began.

Her smile is too plastic to be genuine as she lies through her teeth. Sweet, unassuming Sam returns with a broad smile and a light peck before rolling off and slipping into a deep slumber. It’s unfair how easily he falls asleep, unaffected by the beautifully expressive brown eyes and breezy laughter and the sweet, raspy voice that haunt her nights.

Training begins tomorrow, she decides. Setting off to do what Sam couldn’t, she sneaks a hand down her panties when his snoring begins to rattle the bed frame. Images of constellations and canyons race behind her eyelids, thinking of the only person that can.

A name that definitely does not belong to her boyfriend slips through her lips as she comes.

* * *

Forty.

Quinn spends the week at Sam’s and comes back to a predictably vacant room. There are now forty marks on Santana’s stupid ass bookshelf. The pencil she’s gripping snaps in half. The last six are certainly not her doing.

She’s taking a boxing class next quarter, for fucking sure.

* * *

“Quinn, I don’t mean to pry, but lately, you’ve been looking quite—”

“Depressed as fuck?” comes from a bored Tina, who is currently scrolling through Spotify for what she deems is an ‘appropriate study mix’.

“—morose. I was going to say morose.” Rachel finishes, flicking Tina in the forearm. “Is everything alright? No offense, but you look like someone’s told you the fruit cart man’s moved out of Westwood.”

 _“Has_ the fruit cart man moved out of Westwood?” God, that would really be the cherry on top of a shitty week. Sam refused to take a trip to the barbershop and fell asleep through screenings of both _Amelie_ and _Cinema Paradiso_ , so Quinn's brilliant plan hasn’t been working out as well as she anticipated.

“Nah, he’s still there,” Mercedes says. “He’d never leave. You know he’s got the hots for our Quinn here.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “He does not.”

Tina clicks on something called _lofi hip hop music - beats to study/relax_ _to_ before tossing out, “Truth. He never gives anyone else extra slices of mango and coconut. Only you.”

“Anyway,” Rachel interjects, glaring at their easily distracted friends, “Quinn, are you okay? Did you and Santana get into a fight?”

“Mmm, not really. Sam’s my boyfriend now. I thought it best to put an end to… whatever she and I were doing,” she says, tone cold and clipped. “And I’m not depressed. I’m just tired.”

All three of them look at Quinn with various expressions of confusion, concern, and flat-out surprise. Time seems to freeze. Tina leans over to whisper something to Mercedes, whose eyes go wide, but nods back at her slowly. Quinn arches a brow. No one bites. Which is vexing, but no matter; she’s not going to demand they tell her something they so obviously want to keep under wraps. She pushes away that all-too-familiar feeling of neglect and purses her lips instead.

Eventually, Rachel breaks her stare and congratulates her on this new life development. “You and Sam make a beautiful couple.”

“Thanks, Rach.”

“Yeah, you’ll totes have gorgeous Aryan babies,” Mercedes states. Quinn involuntarily winces.

Cautiously, Tina speaks up. “How is Santana taking it?”

Quinn scoffs. “How should I know? I told her a few days ago and she hung up on me. Honestly, did no one teach her the importance of phone etiquette in Lincoln Heights? I’m sure she’s fine—off busying herself with her harem somewhere,” she huffs, drumming her fingers along the wood of Tina’s desk irritatedly.

“I saw her in north campus a couple days ago and she was wearing sneakers,” Mercedes adds, ignoring Quinn’s comment. “Like, they were those Gucci ones, but still. _Sneakers_. Freaked me the hell out.”

Suddenly filled with an odd sense of unease, Quinn clears her throat. “Let’s get back to studying.”

Thank God for Rachel. Lovely, dependable Rachel, who claps her hands and taps on the trackpad of her laptop to wake the screen up. “Right, girls, these books aren’t going to read themselves!”

* * *

It’s not like she’s actively steering clear of Santana, but it has been ten whole days of radio silence.

The fact that she hasn’t seen her roommate is wholly coincidental. Lifeguarding overnight film shoots four times in a row? Quinn needs the money. Pulling all-nighters in the library? Less distractions than the dorm. Taking the scenic route to class instead of the main walkway? Quinn’s annoyed by the incessant flyering of her peers, encouraging her to join mundane clubs. Sleeping in short bursts during the day because she’s memorized Santana’s schedule and knows when she’s in class? Okay, look, that one’s harder to explain.

Quinn can’t bear to look at the Google Calendar right now. She doesn’t even want to know how many dates her roommate’s been on in the last week and a half. The thought alone sends an excruciating pain radiating outward from her chest, so like, she tries not to think about it too much.

The anger she harbored at the start of their falling out has gradually fizzled out. Losing Santana as a friend would have its consequences, Quinn knew that for sure, but what she _didn’t_ know was how severe said consequences would be. She hasn’t eaten anything since lunch on Monday. It’s Thursday now. Her body is beginning to break down its own protein stores to survive.

(This isn’t anything new. Much of her youth was spent essentially starving herself, before she learned that diet and exercise were much better methods to keep fat away. But it isn’t like she can keep anything down regardless. Logically, she has another full day left before she passes out or something. She’ll eat dinner tonight, after yoga. Well, after study group and yoga. But, wait, by then it’ll be too late because she has that 8:00 a.m.

So she’ll have breakfast tomorrow. There’s probably a half-eaten muffin hidden somewhere in the room.)

Someone that looks _almost_ like Quinn Fabray stares back at her when she makes the mistake of looking into a mirror. Except this version has lifeless eyes and sunken cheeks and greasy hair. The image has her dry-heaving into a nearby trash can.

In a surprising turn of events, her only saving grace comes in the form of her boyfriend, who has not noticed anything amiss. Which should be concerning, but you know—men. Ignorance must really be bliss. Day after day, Sam blithers on about impressions and sports and Quinn, with that innate Fabray grace drilled into her, affably nods and smiles at all the appropriate intervals. It's enough to keep her mind from drifting into less desirable topics. If only her mother could see her now.

Mercedes accuses her of evading her problems and Quinn’s retort of “I’m not avoiding anything, I’m prepping for finals!” falls on deaf ears.

That night, as she stares at the photos on Santana’s Instagram—the last nine a mixture of either pictures of Quinn, or the both of them, or ones she snapped of her roommate—she wonders when she became such a fucking liar.

(She wonders how good of a liar you have to be to lie to yourself.)

With a few clicks, she temporarily deactivates her account.

* * *

Courtesy of one Noah Puckerman, a twelve-pack of lukewarm beers and a cup of microwaveable mac and cheese await Quinn as she returns from the library. As much as he’s absolutely terrified of Santana, and as much as Quinn’s rejected his advances time and time again, he’s still tailing her like a lost puppy. And she’s taking full advantage of it.

In another lifetime, she thinks Puck would have made a good boyfriend. Sure, he’s sleazy, and sure, he’s currently looking at her with the most pity she’s ever seen in her life, but it’s nice to know that someone would provide for her, no questions asked.

But she doesn’t need sleaze, or pity, or fucking _questions_. So right now, Puck can suck it. Honestly? Every eavesdropping undergrad can suck it. Does no one have a sense of privacy anymore?

With a curt, “Thanks, Noah,” and his skeptical reply of “Be careful,” Quinn exits his dorm room and crosses the hall to her own.

Theoretically, Quinn knew that her Santana-free bubble wouldn’t last very long. This campus is the smallest of all the UCs, and sooner or later, she’s bound to run into her roommate. Maybe at one of the dining halls, if and when she ever makes her way back to one. Maybe at work, even though she made sure to switch shifts with some poor kid who had a tiny crush on her so that her hours wouldn’t coincide with Santana’s.

Wishful thinking, perhaps, the way the door flings open as Quinn’s halfway through the twelve-pack, screaming along to Alanis’ “You Oughta Know” at top volume. They haven’t spoken in a week and a half yet here Santana is, charging full speed on her high horse, looking stupid cute in her distressed black jeans and cut-off tank advertising some classic rock band Quinn barely registers as something Finn would listen to.

Santana’s face is scrunched up in exasperation (or is it sympathy? Quinn can’t tell, everything’s a bit blurry right now), when she barges in and says, “You need to turn this down. Exams are in three days and quiet hours are in place.”

“Hello to you too, roommate. Welcome back,” Quinn slurs, lazily swinging a bottle between her fingers. Liquid sloshes out and splatters soundlessly onto the carpet. Whoops. What the fuck ever, Santana punched a goddamn hole in the wall, the floor can handle a little beer.

The room goes eerily silent as Santana unplugs Quinn’s phone from the speaker. “Cut the shit, Quinn. You’re gonna get yourself written up.”

“What does it matter to you? You wanted me out of here since the moment you laid eyes on me.”

“That’s called ‘projecting’, honey,” Santana fires back, bitingly sarcastic. “Care to explain why I have nineteen missed calls and a shitload of texts from, like, half the dorm, telling me to come get you? Did you really have to go psycho on your boyfriend in the middle of Bruin Walk?”

Fury simmers deep down. “I’m not your problem. Stop pretending like you give a shit about me, Santana.”

Quinn doesn’t even know where the words are coming from, an unstoppable deluge from her mouth. Her roommate is the _only_ person who has ever cared about Quinn, but she’s angry, she’s drunk, and most of all, still in the midst of tiptoeing through the minefield that is her disastrous denial.

“Bitch, please. I left in the middle of lecture for this second-rate telenovela. Or, rather, was forced out ‘cause my phone wouldn’t stop going off. Speaking of, would it kill you to pick yours up every once in a while?”

The fury goes from a simmer to a runaway rolling boil and Quinn feels the heat of it racing recklessly in her veins. It begins in her sternum, branching outward until it tingles her fingertips. It’s a full-body rage and a dam is broken.

“Fuck you,” she spits, “just because we sleep together sometimes doesn’t mean I owe you anything. You’re screwing the entire university as it is.”

Santana barks out a bitter laugh. The sound spikes daggers into her soul. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Quinn says, taking a hefty swig from her beer.

“Right, so this mental breakdown is my fault? That’s rich. Am I nothing but a human vibrator to you, Quinn? You wanted to see what it was like on the other side before you settled down? News flash, your precious nuclear family ideal is a fabricated fantasy. This isn’t the fifties. Wake the fuck up, Fabray.”

The minefield explodes, sending shards of shrapnel into her already raw ego. She feels the words lodge into her shoulders, her arms, her back. Everything aches and everything is red.

The concept of pettiness is most definitely not foreign to her, but this ire is downright childish. Quinn could potentially be the bigger woman and own up to her shit, except Santana’s lips are twisting into that patented week one sneer which makes taking the high road so, so difficult. Really, it only fuels the fire. Not her fault.

It also doesn’t help that all of her roommate's words are the closest thing to truth Quinn’s heard in awhile. She wants to cover her ears and scream and maybe curl up into a pathetic, drunken ball on the shitty, beer-soaked carpet. But no, she thinks, that’s a Lucy move.

Fuck Lucy and fuck Santana. Instead, she responds the only way _Quinn_ knows how. After all, she is her father’s daughter.

The sound of skin hitting skin rings out into the room.

Shock crosses Santana’s face momentarily as she clutches her cheek, but Quinn’s blindsided when she slaps back with just as much vitriol. Hell hath no fury, she supposes. There’s fire behind Santana’s eyes that seem to burn for an eternity—a fire Quinn hasn’t seen since before they became friends (or friends with benefits, or overly-touchy roommates).

Quinn watches a welt raise on her roommate’s perfect skin. A minute passes before Santana’s shoulders slump and the burn is replaced with resignation. Santana sighs, using the back of her hand to rub at her left eye tiredly. “You know what? I’m done. Sorry for trying to be your friend.”

“We’re not friends! We have never been friends.” The skin of her palm vibrates with heat and her fingers twitch at her side, ready for more. God, she wants to fucking _lay Santana out_.

“I see that now. My mistake. Good luck with your life, Quinn.”

Santana turns on her heel and slams the door, leaving Quinn with an empty bottle and an even emptier room. She can handle fire, and she’s certainly no stranger to pain, but this? This feels like a breakup. Can you even break up with someone you were never with in the first place?

* * *

Hangovers are a bitch. Waking up this afternoon, after already having missed her Drama of Diversity lecture, reminded her of that. There’s a dull ache in the back of her skull, it’s too bright, and her throat is scratchy and dry from yesterday’s scream-singing. Quinn didn’t want to leave the confines of her twin bed but her sheets still somehow smelled of Santal 33, no matter how many times she ran them through the wash. She’s probably gone through half a gallon of laundry detergent by now.

So she’s in class, hardly listening as her professor drones on about something or other. She’s _trying_ to concentrate, she really is, because exams begin on Monday and she knows her academic performance has been drastically suffering. It’s all in vain.

A phantom sting crosses her face and her hand jolts up to her cheek.

Santana’s last sentence broke her. The way she said Quinn’s name with such miserable surrender still echoes in her mind. Until suddenly it doesn’t sound like her roommate anymore but strangely like her professor—

Rachel elbows her in the ribs. Scowling, Quinn’s ready to give her the nastiest glare (how dare she interrupt her, doesn’t anyone realize she’s _going_ through something?) when she sees all of her classmates staring.

“Uh, yes?” she offers, because her professor is looking at her expectantly, but then switches to an “I mean, no?” since Rachel is shaking her head with a solemn frown.

Her professor clears his throat. “I’ve called on you several times now, Miss Fabray.”

“Sorry, what was the question?”

“Why don’t you go home, Quinn. It’s obvious your mind’s elsewhere.” His tone signals that it’s not up for debate. She hastily stuffs papers into her backpack and stands just as fast, the metal chair screeching harshly against the linoleum.

Twenty pairs of eyes follow as she exits the auditorium, fighting the tears that threaten to spill.

* * *

Santana’s in bed when Quinn gets back and she’s flooded with relief. She spent the entire walk to the dorms alternating between a) wanting to punch her professor in his patronizing mouth and b) thinking of ways to say sorry to her roommate. The latter won in the end—she’s forever rooted with Christianity and its morals of forgiveness—as she ambled through campus. Yes, she took the long way back, because yes, she needed to draft an apology speech on her phone.

She toes off her flats and places them neatly in her closet before sitting down on the edge of her roommate’s bed. She has no idea how to start, but she figures at least a greeting will get her going.

So, you know. “Hey.”

Santana stirs momentarily but otherwise remains asleep. So Quinn lifts the covers up gently, but lets go with a gasp because, _blonde_. Unless she spontaneously got a dye job, this is not her roommate.

A yawn, and then, “San?”

Most definitely not her roommate.

“Uh… no.”

“Crap. Quinn?” Blonde whizzes by as the body shoots up, narrowly avoiding a collision with Quinn’s head. And shit, the body’s _naked_.

She immediately averts her gaze, but then turns back because she knows this voice. “Brittany?”

Brittany gives her a smile, unabashed in her nudity. “Hi. You aren’t supposed to be back yet. Not for like, another day at least.”

“Day? Never mind. My professor—you know what, it doesn’t matter.” Quinn pinches the bridge of her nose. “Where’s Santana? And please, Brittany, please, for the love of all that is holy, will you put some clothes on?”

“My bad. I forgot you were religious.” Quinn wants to say something about it not being religion but common decency as Brittany grabs a shirt from the damn chair and shrugs it over her head. It’s one of Santana’s (a plain white crew neck that sports the word “Lebanese” in bold, black print, which Quinn doesn’t get because Santana’s definitely Hispanic) and it fills Quinn with a sick sense of discomfort. “Santana’s at work, I think. Or dinner? I don’t actually know. Calendars confuse me,” she says, unraveling a thread on the blanket. “No one taught me how to read one.”

It’s silent for a very long time.

Quinn finds herself glancing at Brittany, then at the forty—fucking _forty_ —scratches on Santana’s bookshelf, and then back to Brittany. Words fall from her mouth before she can stop them. “How many of those are yours?”

Brows knit together. “None?”

It’s Quinn’s turn to be confused. She flashes back to the earlier in the quarter, remembering how intimate the two were with their linked pinkies and easy declarations of love. How she ever believed her roommate was anything but a Kinsey 6 still astounds her. Half the shelf is filled with queer literature, for God’s sake.

“What? You’ve never had sex with Santana? You’re literally naked. In her bed. Right now.”

“What do you mean? We’ve been sharing sweet lady kisses since high school. Except for the last few weeks.”

_What kind of shitty euphemism is that?_

“What do _you_ mean?” Quinn forcefully points towards the tallies.

“Oh!” A lightbulb seems to go off in Brittany’s head. “Those are all different girls. One girl, one line, no matter how many times Santana sleeps with them. I’m in the bedpost at her parents’ house. First one, too,” she clarifies, beaming. It doesn’t seem like a brag, more a statement of fact, but Quinn feels herself growing outraged anyway.

She begins to pace around the room. “That’s… fucking ridiculous. I thought these were separate instances, not people. What the shit,” she rambles, squeezing and releasing her fists with every step she takes. To hell with forgiveness. To hell with patience. To hell with ramifications.

Brittany’s eyes, clear and blue as the Los Angeles sky, grow big as saucers. “Hey, wanna take a breather or something?”

“No,” she scoffs. “Shit, I’m only on there once too. Which means Santana had sex with other girls while we were together. Well, not _together_ together. We weren’t exclusive. Obviously. Whatever, you know what I mean. And this bitch has the nerve to be upset with me? Sorry I value _monogamy_.”

“Actually, I know for a fact she didn’t sleep with anyone while she was with you. Not even me.”

“But twelve in a span of two weeks? How does she even find the time to legitimately sleep?”

“I’m gonna tell you something, but you have to promise you won’t get mad.”

“Fine,” she replies, breathing deep to let Brittany know she’s trying. Quinn might be angry, but she’s also genuinely curious.

Brittany toys with the loose thread some more before admitting, “She sometimes has sex with multiple women at once.”

All the introspective yoga bullshit in the world can’t stop the way she explodes in a frenzy. Quinn must be delirious with rage because she swears she can see a ring form in the carpet from how rapidly she’s pacing.

“Multiple? Women!? Oh my god, she hosts orgies. _Orgies_!” she shrieks.

“Guess you don’t know what a promise is.”

Quinn gives her a wild-eyed stare but otherwise ignores the comment, continuing to blither on in hysteria. “I’ve heard people talk, but you know? I thought it was all gossip. Jesus Christ. Orgies though? Like, that’s so logical, right? But what a fucking slut.”

“I know you’re all hooked on Jesus and stuff but it doesn’t give you the right to treat her like Aleppo.”

That stops Quinn in her tracks and she skids to a halt. “Brittany, do you mean… a leper?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. And she’s not a slut, she’s lonely. Santana’s the loneliest person I’ve ever met.”

Santana? Lonely? Yeah, and Quinn’s not an angry twenty-year-old college sophomore with a proclivity for impulsive mood swings. Her roommate has hordes of followers, or haters, depending on who you ask. She’s the alpha and whether it’s fear or awe that keeps people in line, she’s still up here, with the stupid smirk that bares those neat rows of blindingly white teeth. People fall to their knees when Santana breezes by. Literally. Once when Santana walked Quinn to lecture a girl had taken one look at her roommate and ran into a glass door.

Fucking _lonely_ , who does Brittany think she’s fooling?

“It’s true, Quinn. Santana’s sad, y’know? That’s why she does what she does. She’s actually been a lot better since you got close.”

Okay, fine. She can admit that one. Quinn knows sadness; she lives it on a daily basis. And sometimes Santana looks the same way Quinn thinks is reflected upon her own features, all despondent eyes and bitter smiles. But what does Brittany mean by better? Quinn doesn’t know, so she asks.

“Better how?”

Brittany runs her fingers through her hair, tousling the blonde so that it parts down the side instead of its usual middle.

“She stopped drinking and smoking so much. Stopped going out every night. She even has a job now. It’s kinda wild, ‘cause she’s been spending her parents’ money for years. A trust fund only lasts so long,” Brittany explains. Her voice is neutral, apathetic. Quinn wonders how she’s able to keep her emotions in check like this. “I’ve never seen her so responsible. She started seeing a therapist regularly again.”

“What—she—Santana goes to _therapy_?”

“Every week on Wednesdays.”

The image of their shared Google Calendar comes to the forefront of Quinn’s mind. “Wait, Wednesdays at six?”

“Yeah.”

Oh my god. CAPS is not a hat-wearing woman, it’s UCLA’s Counseling and Psychological Service Center. That metaphorical Joshua Tree diner neon sign buzzes overhead once again. _Idiot_ , _idiot_ , _idiot_ , it reads.

“Why does Santana need to see a therapist?”

“She’s got unresolved rage issues.” Immediately, Quinn’s gaze snaps to the hole in the wall next to the shelf. “It’s really not my place to say,” Brittany confesses, looking vacantly out of the window. There are students in the dorm across the courtyard having some sort of dance party in their room. Flashes of blue and green flicker around the space. Quinn envies the fact that their whole existence is not crumbling before them like hers is right now.

How did she not know Santana went to therapy? The evidence was literally right in front of her the whole time. Shit, should Quinn go to therapy? Probably. She’s not good with, like, unpacking her emotions in a healthy way. Yoga really isn’t doing much for her mindfulness.

Gingerly, Quinn sits down on the corner of her roommate’s bed. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.”

“It’s okay. Santana has a lot of secrets but I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. She never stops talking about you; literally every other sentence starts with ‘Quinn this’ or ‘Quinn that’.”

“Doesn’t that make you jealous?”

“‘Course not. She’s my best friend. I’m happy when she’s happy, and she’s happy with you.”

The words sink deep into the marrow of her bones, pushing through layers and layers of denial. At once, she understands why Rachel quietly took the brunt of her insults, why Tina started going on about some Korean proverb of “blazing fires burn fast” (which confused Quinn more than helped her), why Mercedes kept trying to surreptitiously sneak energy bars into the front pocket of her backpack. Even now, with Brittany, who has been way more patient than she deserved. Quinn can’t believe it was so obvious to everyone except herself. Again.

It’s been a while since Quinn felt happiness—well, technically it’s only been a week—but the emotion had come so frequently with Santana that once she disappeared, all traces of happiness dissipated with her.

“Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She brings a hand up to her face and huh, her cheeks _are_ wet. Brittany pats her shoulder reassuringly. “Can I tell you a secret, Quinn?”

Quinn sniffs. “Sure.”

Brittany leans in close, so close that Quinn can feel the warmth of her breath grazing her ear. “I think she really likes you,” she whispers. “I mean, I would know, I’m her best friend.”

“Can I tell you one back?”

“Totally.”

“I think I really like her, too.”

It feels as if an anvil’s been lifted off her chest and she’s only marginally aware of the massive gulp of air she takes after her admission. This is huge. A real, positive step in the right direction.

“Good,” Brittany says, plainly, with a smile so bright and warm and cheerful Quinn finds herself mirroring it. “Don’t mess this up, Quinn.”

“I won't. I promise.” She sticks her pinky out and Brittany's automatically hooks around it.

“Go get her, tiger.”

* * *

There are several notifications on Quinn’s phone as she returns from the shower; a couple from Mercedes and Rachel, and even Mike, checking in (she knew there was a reason why she liked him so much), but those are ignored in favor of the messages from Santana.

 _britt called, said you wanted to talk  
_ _i’ll drop by at 10_

Quinn checks the time. It’s quarter till and god, why did she take so long in the shower? She stood under the spray until her skin turned red, far longer than usual, and she’s aware she must look like a gross, splotchy, bloated version of Quinn Fabray. All the same, she opens her draft and makes a few last-minute edits before three quick raps come from behind the wood.

10:02 p.m. flashes across the screen and Quinn can’t help the nervous bubble of laughter that escapes because Santana’s knocking on her own door. Of which she has the keycard to. But Quinn puts her left foot forward first, and then her right, left again, exhales, and twists the handle.

Nothing in the world could have prepared her for the sight. Bile rises at the back of her throat and she suppresses the urge to vomit. Considering her recent caloric intake and the way Santana rocks back and forth on her heels and some random boy on their floor eyeing them with a smarmy smile, it’s probably not the best course of action.

Dark circles rim brown eyes. Bones protrude more than they ever have, sharp and threatening, and as a result, Santana’s uncharacteristic choice of sweats hangs limply over her petite frame. Taking note that her roommate is indeed wearing sneakers, Quinn almost forgets how short Santana is compared to her without heels on. But she is legitimately tiny, and looks even smaller now, swallowed whole by an old UCLA Spirit Squad hoodie and track pants.

Despite it all, her roommate remains so awfully gorgeous.

And despite _that_ , self-hatred rattles within the hollows of her rib cage. It builds, bounces, and clangs and a small, irrational part of her thinks the potency of her contempt is so great it’ll force itself right out of her sternum.

(With her free hand, she clutches at her chest, just in case.)

“Santana,” she tries, hesitantly. Tiredly. Nervously.

Her roommate blinks thrice, then mumbles a defeated, “Hi Quinn,” in return.

God, the sound of it. Quinn wants to bash her head against Santana’s marred bookshelf, splinter the wood to equal the splintering of her heart, to have the pain on her outsides reflect the amount on her insides—but she doesn’t.

Though it isn’t for lack of trying, she supposes.

Suddenly the pre-written speech doesn’t seem so important and she throws her arms around her roommate, breathing out so many apologies that they meld together into one long word. Santana stiffens initially, but then her hands come up to circle Quinn’s waist and she holds her tight. Quinn doesn’t let go until she feels droplets on her cheek. She can’t believe she’s doing this again. She didn’t think she had any more tears left in her.

Except her vision remains suspiciously clear. It's then she looks up and discovers Santana’s the one crying. Quinn feels her stomach contort in pain. Not unlike the sensation she felt from her recent malnourishment (though Mercedes has remedied that with a constant supply of comfort food and damn, she really needs to learn how to be a better friend). Her stomach flips and twists and she clings to Santana to steady herself, lest she fall over.

Without thinking, her body moves of its own volition, pressing light kisses all over Santana’s nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, and finally, her mouth. Cradling Quinn’s face, Santana sighs and Quinn breathes it in, breathes _her_ in, selfishly.

It feels like the very first time, which seems like an eternity ago, when in actuality it’s been a mere three weeks. Three weeks of blurring the lines between roommate and lover, three weeks of tampered down emotion, three weeks of fucking _something_.

A sharp, unpleasant whistle from the ogling boy (gossip travels faster than those California wildfires here on the fourth floor, so everyone and their mother knows the Hot Lesbian Menace to Society and Little Miss Jesus are “totally doin’ it on the reg”) has Quinn pulling Santana in by the string of her pants as she shuts the door behind them, pinning her up against the grain when the lock clicks. There’s a flurry of hands that pull at clothes, both Santana’s and Quinn’s doing so ravenously, peeling off layer by layer until they’re left as stripped as their emotions.

Quinn presses a thigh between her roommate’s legs and Santana’s eyes roll back as her head slams against the wood, reverberating the walls with a heavy thunk. Santana begins a slow roll of her hips and Quinn just lets her, grabbing her waist and encouraging her undulations.

With a tongue that wraps around Quinn’s so persistently, Santana kisses her with all the desperation in the world, manifested into this singular, broken girl. It’s devastating, thoroughly fucking devastating, but there’s a tenderness cutting through the film of lust. A devotion, a love in them that Quinn’s been so blind to.

Oh. Oh, shit. So _that’s_ what this is.

Gears shift into place and everything comes together. The implicit trust, the jealousy, the detrimental heartache, the sensation in the pit of her stomach that feels like she’s ingested a hundred butterflies whenever she so much as hears Santana laugh or sing or speak.

This isn’t some casual infatuation. This is love. Quinn loves Santana. She’s in love with Santana.

The recognition is simultaneously so relieving and so petrifying. Really, she needs to reevaluate her thought process because how did she miss this? How did she get into this school with zero critical thinking ability?

Right. Buried under the chaos that is her crushing Christianity and utter denial, she didn’t allow herself to feel. But, now, with her whole body pressed against Santana’s, not a centimeter of space dividing them, she’s feeling everything. Every ounce of repressed emotion comes pouring out in a volley of unbridled passion as she kisses Santana with all the ferocity she can muster.

It still isn't the time for such professions. Not when Quinn’s on the cusp of breaking open, overrun with melancholy and regret. Not when Santana’s whimpering into her mouth, tears flowing so freely that salt coats Quinn’s taste buds.

Instead, she licks a hot stripe up the side of Santana’s neck before biting down possessively into the junction where neck meets shoulder. A rush of slickness anoints Quinn’s thigh.

Although this isn’t technically the plan Quinn had in mind when Santana texted her, and surely not the plan Santana had in mind when she sent the message, it doesn’t stop Quinn from dropping to her knees. Santana doesn’t stop her either, as she runs a shaky hand through blonde locks. Quinn hooks a preposterously long leg over her shoulder, wrapping her lips around Santana’s clit so determinedly that fingers unconsciously grip tighter at the tresses between them. It’s verging on painful, but Quinn deserves a little pain. She deserves a lot of it, actually.

She says, “You can pull my hair,” when she realizes that she needs this. Needs to feel something other than the emotional sting that’s made an unwelcome home within her.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Her roommate acquiesces with a sharp yank, hard enough that her lips separate from Santana’s clit with a wet pop. The sensation alone is more than enough to send all of the blood in her body south. Quinn’s hand slides down her own body, dipping in between her own folds, releasing a moan against Santana’s skin as her fingers curl up into pitifully soaking heat. Santana’s head slams against the door and she fists tighter against Quinn’s hair.

She firmly believes she’ll never tire of this sight—Santana’s mouth ajar, fingers rolling a pebbled nipple, stomach muscles flexing with every lap of her flattened tongue. Slick and open and glistening for her. Her heart kickstarts and she forgot how it felt to have it beating again, its cadence commanding and strong.

Quinn moves against her own fingers, hurtling towards release with striking intensity. It’ll take but a moment for her to gloriously swan dive off the edge, but sharp nails scratching at her shoulders stop her right before she tips over.

“No, let me.” A whimpered plea, a fraught appeal; Quinn can only give in. One more stroke and she would have tumbled, but she doesn’t care. It’s at this time she realizes she will always, always give in to Santana Lopez.

That’s the kind of thing you do for the girl you love, right? That self-sacrificing, all-encompassing, climax-postponing kind of love?

Rising from her position on the floor, pausing to press her lips against each of Santana’s ribs, Quinn stands.

“Okay,” she says, nodding, “okay.”

With little effort on Santana’s part, she maneuvers Quinn against the doorframe, the wood warm and solid against Quinn’s naked body. Long, delicate fingers meet no resistance as they slip into Quinn, and with two solid pumps it’s over—she shatters and breaks, curling and crying into Santana as she works her over with whispered words that mean everything and nothing all at once.

Not a minute after she crests, Quinn’s back on her knees, determined to make her remorse, her worship, her love known. The same sort of profound reverence is mimicked in the depths of wide brown eyes and Quinn knows. Santana’s in love with her too.

Her tongue continues to beg for absolution until Santana arches with an apology of her own.

* * *

Later—after another embarrassingly quick-triggered orgasm on Quinn’s behalf because Santana knows Quinn’s body more than she knows the works of Roxane Gay, after they’ve moved from the door to a bed, after tears have finally stopped falling—when the air is still heavy with the evidence of their frantic, pentinent coupling, Santana takes a deep breath and asks, “What happened?”

Lifting her cheek from her roommate’s chest, Quinn turns so that her chin rests in the valley of Santana’s breasts. “Hmm?”

“The other day. With,” she falters, “Sam.”

Quinn doesn’t need to see her roommate’s face to know there’s a ninety percent chance her beautiful mouth is set in a deep frown. “Oh.”

“We don’t have to talk about it unless you want to,” she says, tilting her neck forward to place a light kiss to Quinn’s shoulder.

“No, it’s okay. He um—he ended things.”

“Wait, he broke up with you? _Pendejo_. I didn’t even know you liked him that much.”

(She didn’t. She probably never would have, no matter how much she forced the attraction.

As much as she tried to repress the pent-up, non-heterosexual emotions—because Physical Acts vs. Real Feelings are completely different, according to Quinn Fabray, Good Christian—they came tumbling out anyway. To her boyfriend of all people. And he went high and mighty homophobe on her. Except she won’t tell Santana that because she’d go all Lincoln Heights on him and Quinn doesn’t make enough money lifeguarding to bail her roommate out of jail when she inevitably lands there for assault.)

Quinn stays silent and nestles deeper.

“Oh, Quinn,” Santana says in such a way that Quinn’s on the precipice of tears once again, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry I _hit_ you, Santana,” she atones into the base of her roommate’s neck, sweeping her lips over the slightly damp skin. “That was a bitch move.”

Santana kisses her forehead and then kneads her fingers gently through blonde hair. With every stroke, Quinn’s eyelids grow as heavy as her heart.

“Don’t worry about it, babe. Mad respect. Not many people can say they’ve gone toe-to-toe with a Lopez and come out alive. Plus, you know… I hit you back. So we’re even.”

Quinn laughs for the first time in a week and it feels _good_. This may be the most honest conversation they’ve ever had, and she reflects on the talk (re: freak out) she had with Brittany. How Santana’s inherently a sad and lonely person, things Quinn is much too closely acquainted with. The fact that she knows about her roommate going to therapy has her wanting—no, needing—to level the playing field.

Opening up has always been incredibly difficult for Quinn. The Fabrays aren’t transparent people, not like Santana is. They don’t talk. If Santana’s a window, the Fabrays are super-maximum security prisons. Underground. With reinforced steel walls. In the middle of Antarctica. The Earth probably would have cracked open if her father even so much as veered anywhere close to talking about feelings. Which is why Quinn’s so lousy with acknowledging them in the first place. No outlet, ever.

There’s a perpetual disconnect with her body and her brain. Bones, muscles, tendons, organs; they’re all there—molded and shaped by the hands of God first, and then a plastic surgeon’s—but Quinn’s never been able to piece that all together to form a coherent, rational, whole being.

And okay, sure, there’s _something_ up there that allowed her to snatch up an acceptance to UCLA. She’s not stupid by any means, but she certainly is a dumbass a lot of the time.

She’d rather compartmentalize than deal, but truthfully, she’s sick of just dealing. Dealing hasn’t gotten her anywhere. Actually, dealing’s gotten her here, in this shit show of a predicament. Like, it might be nice now but it always is after an orgasm or two. (God, she should really, really find a therapist. Stat.)

Fuck the Fabray way. It’s time to get everything out into the open. For Santana. For herself.

“Santana, haven’t you ever wondered why I transferred?”

Mercedes had, and so did the rest of their friends, but Quinn would always steer the conversation in another direction as soon as one of them brought it up.

“I mean, yeah. You popped up out of nowhere, the very epitome of holier-than-thou—pun intended—all kinds of blonde spitfire and god, is it a bad time to say I hated you? I mean, obviously, I don’t now,” she adds, squeezing Quinn’s shoulders for good measure, “but I had every intention of riding out this quarter keeping that hatred alive. Then somehow you infiltrated my dorm, my friend group, and my every waking thought, and well, here we are now.”

“Here we are now,” Quinn repeats. “Why haven’t you asked me about it?”

“You’re the kind of girl who does things on her own time. It’s one of the things I like about you. So I never pressed.”

Strange to think that that the first person she’d want to come clean to is Santana, when two and a half months ago she was sure if her roommate ever found out, she’d have to switch schools again. But here Santana is, patient as ever, running her palms up and down Quinn’s arms, and she figures that now’s as good a time as any. Especially because Santana explicitly voiced that she truly _likes_ something about Quinn. The verbal confirmation is enough to wriggle out of her embrace.

“I need to show you something.”

Raising an eyebrow, Santana looks at her incredulously and goes, “Now? What can be more important than me, naked, in your bed?”

“Shut up, Santana,” she quips, padding over to the other side of the room. She drags her fingertips along the spines of the novels on her bookshelf until they hover over that old copy of Alice in Wonderland. Tucked covertly between the pages is the only photo Quinn has of her and her grandfather. It hurts to look at, in part because he passed a few years ago, but also because the girl in the Polaroid has stringy reddish-brown hair, braces, and is nearly twice the weight Quinn is now. She brushes her thumb pensively over its glossy surface before heading back to the bed. “Here,” she says, thrusting the picture a bit too forcibly into Santana’s awaiting hands.

“Cute. Who are these people?”

“Lucy and her grandfather.”

“Okay… do they have anything to do with why you transferred?”

“Do you know my full name?” When her roommate shakes her head, she sucks in a deep breath. “Quinn is actually my middle name. And well, Lucy’s my first. So, I mean, that’s me. In the photo. And that’s my grandfather.”

“If this is some kind of weirdo prank, I’ll have you know I don’t get it.”

“Look closer, Santana.” There are some things that minor enhancement surgery and diets can’t change. Lucy’s hazel eyes and toothy smile reflect Quinn's own. It takes a few silent beats of Santana analyzing the Polaroid before realization dawns upon her.

“I mean, I obviously know you aren’t a natural blonde,” she jokes, tilting her head down to the thatch of hair between Quinn’s thighs.

“Really?” Quinn groans. She can’t believe that that’s Santana’s first reaction. Although, now that she thinks about it, she’s really not all that surprised. “My biggest secret is literally in your hands and you want to talk about how the carpet doesn’t match the drapes?”

It’s so ridiculous, and so completely _Santana_ , and suddenly her shoulders feel a million pounds lighter. And then Quinn’s laughing, and Santana is too, and everything feels okay. Until her roommate abruptly stops laughing and looks between the photo and Quinn and back again.

“I don’t know what this has to do with you coming to UCLA.”

A year later and Quinn’s finally facing the facts.

“Last quarter, at my other school, some jealous girl on my squad—before you roll your eyes, yes, I _was_ a cheerleader, a pretty good one at that—”

“Don’t doubt it, Q. I recognize a cheer body when I see one, you’re all kinds of flexible.”

“Santana, focus, please.” When she puts her hands up in surrender, Quinn continues. “As I was saying, I was promoted to Captain, over this girl who bitched about seniority or something, but my high school coach was ruthless in her training—bordering on corporal punishment—so I was better than any of them. I had earned that spot, even though I was only a freshman. It was everything I ever wanted, everything Lucy wanted. I had more friends than I could have ever dreamed of, the way the boys looked at me made me feel special. I mean, they mostly wanted to get into my pants but I didn’t care. I never had that kind of attention.

“But during our homecoming game, that same jealous shrew somehow had gotten ahold of a photo of Lucy and projected it onto the Jumbotron. Everyone laughed at me, Santana. I can still hear it sometimes. Do you know how loud a football stadium gets? The whole place was shaking and I could feel their jeers and taunts and insults vibrating my whole body.

“I was so embarrassed that I quit the squad and dropped out that weekend. Then I moved as far away as possible. So that’s how I ended up in LA. And maybe it’s why I was so terrible to you in the beginning. You went to all those parties and on dates with those boys—which I now know were not boys at all—and you were so confident and even though people are kind of scared of you, they respect you. And you know, you’re like, effortlessly gorgeous. As much as I’m aware of how different I look now, versus when I was Lucy, it still rattles me. _You_ rattle me, Santana.”

Quinn reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand as she finishes and downs its entire contents in seconds. Her spiel had Santana’s expressions flickering from a scowl, to a grimace, to smirk. But now it’s back to a scowl and Quinn’s steadily growing more anxious because she’s never really seen Santana so _silent_ and she fears she made a mistake in spilling her tragic backstory.

“Aren’t you going to say something?”

Santana blinks slowly. Then she blinks again. By the third time she does, Quinn’s about halfway out the door when she begins to speak.

“This is a lot to take in. I’m in the process of… processing.”

Quinn feels her heart start to fracture once more and her lower lip trembles. What if Santana can’t handle the existence of Lucy? What if Santana thinks she’s a coward for transferring? What if Santana wants nothing to do with her anymore?

The questions have her hyperventilating.

“Oh, shit, no, that came out wrong,” Santana explains, moving to get up from the bed and wrapping Quinn up in her arms. “I’m sorry, don’t cry. I meant that I don’t know which parts to concentrate on first, you know? Honestly, I’m still reeling from the whole breakup thing. On one hand, I wanna sock Sam in the nose for breaking up with you. And on the other, I wanna pummel that bitter cheer bitch's face in. Just tell me whose ass I have to kick and I’ll do it, Quinn. You know what? Fuck it. _¿Por qué no los dos?_ ”

“Must you be so violent?” Quinn asks, then smiles all the same. At least she was right about one thing—her roommate really does have a temper. But then she untangles herself from Santana’s grasp again, with a frown and a “Wait, you haven’t mentioned Lucy at all”.

“What’s there to mention?”

“Don’t you feel like I’ve, I don’t know, lied to you or something? Been dishonest about my double life? You can’t possibly expect me to believe you don’t care about how vastly different I look in that photo. I had plastic surgery, Santana.”

“So what? It’s natural to not like things about yourself, so who am I to police your life decisions? It’d be real hypocritical of me, considering these tits aren’t even real,” she says, palming said tits in her hands.

Quinn’s aware her eyes must be bugging out of her head due to both the action and this new information. “They’re not!? But they’re so—you’re so—you got a boob job?”

“Yep, sure did,” Santana dismisses, shrugging. “Look, everyone has their skeletons. Lucy, your transfer, whatever. None of it changes how I feel about you.”

“And how do you feel about me?”

“Gonna be real with you, babe. This is uncharted territory for me. I don’t usually hang out with the people I sleep with. But you’re so smart and so fucking funny and like, I think it’s cute how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. Or how you look like a kid on Christmas morning when you try something new and love it, like food or weed or even skydiving. And even though you wear nothing but pastels and you’re a literal genius slapper, I find myself wanting to be around you all the time. It’s pathological at this point.”

“I like being around you too, you know,” Quinn says, tucking her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t even realize she’s done it until her roommate flashes that cocky smirk. “Oh, eat a dick. Like you don’t chip at your exorbitantly-priced biweekly manicures when _you’re_ nervous.”

And then Santana’s kissing her, fully and deeply, and Quinn’s nearly breathless by the end of it as her roommate presses little pecks against her swollen lips.

“Well I’m glad we got that out into the open. Or else my confession would have been super awkward.”

“Is it a bad time to say I already knew you liked me? I mean, Brittany told me earlier. And I assume the wall didn’t randomly cave in on itself,” Quinn indicates, gesturing towards the fist-sized hole next to the bookshelf.

“Guess we both have our issues,” Santana says. “Let’s say I may not have taken out my frustrations with the whole ‘you dating Sam’ thing in the healthiest of ways. Don’t worry, I’m seeing someone for it though.”

Quinn nods solemnly. She understands. Sometimes words aren’t enough. “What now?”

“I’m not sure. You just had your heart broken. I don’t even know how you let that guppy loser even have it in the first place. You’re way too cool for him.”

Wide-eyed, Quinn asks, “You think I’m cool?”

“The coolest, Q. The fucking coolest. But like I said: uncharted territory. So how ‘bout we take things slow, yeah?”

It’s not the answer Quinn was hoping for. Not like she expected Santana to ask her out officially then and there, but she anticipated a first date or something, at the very least. Still, she muses, it’s better than nothing.

“I can do slow.”

This time, it’s Santana who tucks Quinn’s hair behind her ear. They both blush. “So… you want me to _slowly_ give you another orgasm or would that be too forward?”

Time is running out, they only have one week left of the quarter, but Quinn can only laugh. Postponing her declaration isn’t ideal, especially when she can finally, finally put a name to the feeling, but a declaration itself isn’t slow.

In the end, there are no orgasms, given or received; there is only Quinn, curled into a ball, and Santana, warm and strong, holding her. She’s secure in this space, her back to her roommate’s front, anchored and comfortable. Santana presses her lips to the bone that protrudes from the top of Quinn’s spinal column.

Before the cloud of sleep draws her in, Quinn says, “I missed you,” and then, “I’m sorry.” What she means is _I love you_ and _please don’t leave_.

The arms around her loop tighter and Quinn takes one of those deft hands within hers and tugs it to her chest. Santana spins the ring on Quinn's finger, tapping the tiny crescent moon with her thumb. Quinn's heartbeat pulses rhythmically—a stealthy reminder that although she has to put her profession on the back burner, it’s this girl her heart is beating for. And she can keep her mouth shut for patient, beautiful, breathtaking Santana. It's really only fair.

“I know,” is all she hears, and nothing else, because her roommate’s breathing has evened out. Somehow, Quinn knows Santana can tell what she meant. The words between the lines.

Tiny, warm puffs of air ruffle her hair and tickle the back of her neck. It’s the last thing she feels before she dozes off too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it is straight-up insane to me that this has over a hundred kudoses. truly, truly insane. i expected no more than thirty, really, writing for a dead fandom and an unpopular pairing and whatnot. my mind? blown. my computer? constantly burning my lap because i'm just trucking away all the time. my heart? full as hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> love is patient, love is kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the final installment! this fic has such a special place in my little heart, because, yeah, it is 90% based off my own experiences at UCLA, but also because it's the first full-fledged thing i've ever written! kind of crazy to think since i've never been a writer, and really only started because i was bored at the beginning of quarantine.
> 
> this one’s for jenn, i suppose—my college roommate whom this fic was basically founded on. we never fell in love but, fuck if we had some good times. haven’t spoken to you in years and i mean, i’m not really gonna reach out now but if you stumble upon this somehow, hope you’re not mad i borrowed pieces of our life to write it.
> 
> anyway! a trillion thank yous to those who read, commented, and kudosed. i love all of you. it's been real.

The thing about love is that it sort of just runs on its own timeline.

Based on her prior experiences with it—or lack thereof—Quinn finally understands that it’s not something you can strong arm into happening the way you want it to. She wasn’t able to force love upon that boy from her English Composition lecture. Wasn’t able to force it upon Sam. It’s fine. Small potatoes compared to what she feels for her roommate.

The most irritating thing about this whole situation is that Quinn _has_ it now. Through and through. She loves Santana and she’s pretty damn sure Santana loves her right back. Which is great because, as it turns out, homosexuality isn’t quite a dealbreaker with the whole “getting into Heaven” thing. Apparently those Bible-thumping lessons her parents hammered into her are associated with the wrong kind of Christianity.

Last Monday, after submitting her final script to that condescending professor, Quinn made her way to church and requested to speak to a pastor about this newfound emotional revelation. (Largely due to the fact that she didn’t want to crack open a Bible and check for herself. Her eyes had fully dried out from literal days of nonstop studying. But hey, she knows firsthand how words can be misconstrued so why not get her information straight from the source?)

Anyway, love in general is terrifying. Loving a woman? Even more so. But Hell? Yeah, that takes the cake.

After a few stammered confessions on Quinn’s behalf, the pastor eventually told her that everything she had been feeling was right and valid and that she was definitely not going to burn for all eternity for simply loving a girl. Besides, he said, there were worse sins to account for. Like murder, for instance.

So, hello, God? What’s the deal?

This exercise in self-restraint must be another one of those “testing her will” things. Crazy how things come full circle. But, come on! Give a girl a break. It’s been three days of beating around the bush. Of shy kisses and hand-holding. Of holding her tongue. Of not being Santana Lopez’s fucking girlfriend.

Regardless, patience is a virtue, and while bisexuality is officially not a sin, Quinn thinks she really shouldn’t push her luck any further. As much as she wants to tie her roommate to a chair and more or less demand that seemingly unattainable title, she won’t.

But, shit, is it hard.

Somehow, Santana does not realize that Quinn is not in fact, hung up over Sam, but is instead hung up over _her_. Rather annoying how now of all times Santana decides to establish boundaries. Chivalrous Santana is kind of a turn-on, she muses. Yet, her roommate's cluelessness is confirmed by the rather large bottle of vodka Quinn spots on her desk after she returns from her first soul-sucking exam, with a yellow post-it stuck to its neck.

_only aiding and abetting in this pity party for one more day. you are way too good for him but i know how you love your dramatics, so i’ll let you waste a couple more tears. do NOT drink before your production final, i will not have you puking on stage. i’ll be home tonight. love, san_

And since she’s still hung up on someone regardless, Quinn twists the cap off and lets the liquid sear her throat, almost hacking a lung out in the process.

Perhaps it’s why the whole situation is so upsetting, because Santana really _does_ know a lot about her, much more than Quinn’s allowed anyone to know about herself, but still does not understand that Sam was literally last week’s news. And everyone seems to know that. Even Finn, who is the most ignorant person Quinn’s ever met.

That afternoon, she tracks Brittany down for answers. If anyone knows her roommate… well, it’s her roommate’s best friend.

“Let her do her thing, Quinn. She gets into mother bear mode when she sees someone she loves is heartbroken.”

“See, that’s the thing!” she groans, “I’m not heartbroken over Sam. I don’t see why she doesn’t get that.”

“What’s that thing they say? Love is blind? That’s San right now. All she sees is you skulking around looking like…” Brittany looks away thoughtfully, and Quinn’s sure she had trailed off but then her gaze is focused back onto hers in a split second, those icy blues piercing into the depths of her soul. “Looking like Puck that one time last year when he got rejected by this hot senior who said that she ‘didn’t do freshman’ but then he saw her come out of Santana’s dorm room the next morning looking all kinds of thoroughly-fucked.”

“Kick me while I’m down, why don’t you? Please do not compare me to the likes of Noah Puckerman.”

“I didn’t kick you,” Brittany frowns, confusedly. “I would never kick you. You’re like a sad little panda.”

“It’s an expression, Britt.”

Quinn spins the straw of her iced matcha between her fingers until she finally musters up the courage to ask a question that’s been on her mind since the first time she saw Brittany in her room during week one. “Did you and Santana ever date?”

“Yeah, in high school.”

“Why’d you two break up?”

“Santana had an energy exchange with some girl at the library and she realized she needed to explore her sexuality or something.” There isn’t any malice in her words, not even a hint of bitterness, and Quinn thinks it’s the strangest thing. “So she ended the relationship. I was totally out of it for a while. But then I dated Sam, and I was fine. But then you dated Sam, and that was weird.”

Quinn doesn’t even know what part to focus on first: the ‘energy exchange’ or the fact that both she and Brittany had both dated the same boy. Maybe that’s why Santana hates him with a fiery passion. But there’s so much to unpack here, Quinn thinks she’ll explode if she tries tackling the problems at the same time. So she starts with the former.

“What does that even mean, an energy exchange?”

Brittany shrugs. “I have no idea. People say things a lot of the time that I don’t understand. Like the kicking thing. Everyone thinks I’m dumb, but I’m not. I’m actually kind of a genius. I transferred here too, like you, but from MIT.”

“You are? You did?” Quinn can’t help the incredulousness that laces her tone with her rapid fire questions. For the millionth time today, she’s left bewildered.

“Yeah. Words are hard for me, but numbers are concrete, you know? Everything’s always the same. One plus one will always be two, and that makes me feel good.”

“So why’d you come to UCLA?”

“Well, because Santana’s here, of course. I mean, I really liked math, but then everyone started making me do it all the time, and it got really stressful. My brain hurt so much. I was so tired all the time. Math is fun, but dancing,” Brittany sighs dreamily, eyes brightening as she talks. “There’s nothing like it. The dance scene in LA is so crazy, so exciting. I’m having the time of my life.”

“That’s great, Britt. I’m glad you’ve found something you’re so passionate about.”

“Thanks, Quinn!”

A comfortable silence befalls them and Quinn allows her mind to wander to where her own passions truly lie. Acting makes up a large part of it; she loves the stage. She loves the emotions, the power, the _feel_ of it all. She might not be as adept as Rachel, but she’s on a fast track to Broadway stardom, so Quinn isn’t worried about Rachel stealing movie and TV roles. Then there’s reading, and yeah, she hasn’t particularly had time for it recently, between nonstop studying and her mind constantly on overdrive thinking of her irritatingly dense roommate.

Quinn takes a deep breath, and another sip of her matcha, before saying, “And then… somewhere in all of this… you dated Sam? How’d that even work out?”

Brittany blinks once, twice, seemingly having forgotten Quinn was even there. “Yeah, last year. But we broke up too, and I was sad.”

Finally, things are beginning to fall into place. Quinn has a goddamn migraine from all the new information. Every conversation she has with Brittany leaves her so incredibly confused.

“Do you think it might be why Santana’s so eager to help me digest my so-called heartbreak? Because the exact same thing happened to you?”

“Probably! That would make a lot of sense. So yeah, just let her do her thing. It’ll make her feel better, it’ll probably make you feel better, and then everyone will feel better because you two are kind of scary when you’re not happy.”

Oddly enough, it's the one thing that Quinn needed to hear today.

“Thank you for all your help, Brittany,” Quinn says, standing to give her a hug. Brittany returns it, full and energetic, and bids her goodbye.

If this is what Santana needs to do, who is Quinn to stop her? Quinn, who idiotically fell in love with her roommate over the course of ten short weeks but didn’t realize it until last weekend. Quinn, who most likely shattered Santana’s heart into a million tiny, nearly irreparable pieces. Quinn, who doesn’t deserve a second chance, let alone a third and a fourth.

 _Be patient_ , she tells herself as she watches Brittany skip away. _Because Santana’s been more than patient with you_.

* * *

As expected, Santana comes back right as the sun dips below the horizon, a reusable bag dangling from the crook of her elbow because Rachel talked her roommate’s ear off about climate change and the importance of “doing her part in these uncertain times” and that “a few simple lifestyle changes will truly help the planet in the long run” and “think of the children!” which Quinn found to be extraordinarily humorous. She raised an eyebrow that night as Santana added a whole plethora of cute canvas totes to her online shopping cart later that night. Her roommate leveled her gaze with an excessively hard glare while clicking purchase.

Triple threat Rachel Berry, saving the world with the power of sheer verbosity.

“Present? For me?” Quinn slurs, bleary-eyed, vodka fully seeped into her system. After that conversation with Brittany, Quinn thought it best to continue her day drinking because Jesus, was that an insane amount of knowledge to absorb in a single afternoon. Plus, her third and last exam is still a couple days away, she can afford to let her hair down right now. What’s the point of college if you don’t make at least a few bad decisions?

(Fucking and subsequently falling in love with your roommate, not included.)

With a grin that blows the Cheshire Cat’s out of the water, Santana reaches in and pulls a box out. “You know it.”

“Nope,” Quinn says, throwing her hand up in opposition, “I must be way more drunk than I thought because there is no way you’re holding bright pink dye right now.”

“Step two of Santana Lopez’s famous break-up remedy: drastically changing your hair.”

“ _No me gusta_.”

Santana falters a bit, a spike of arousal dilating her gorgeously dark eyes. “Look who’s becoming a good influence on you. All bilingual and shit now.”

“No offense, Santana, but vodka and hair dye are pretty much the furthest things from good influences.”

“Loosen up, baby girl.”

Loosen up? Fucking loosen up? Quinn’s wound so tight she fears a single iota of bad news will send her into another downward spiral. At least there’s vodka. If she bombs her exams solely because she can't keep her mind of her roommate…

“Do you know how much this upkeep is?” she says, aggressively twirling a lock around her fingertip. “My hairdresser’s gonna have a heart attack if I roll up in six weeks and I’ve painted over the blonde with _box dye._ ”

“Hair grows. That’s the great thing about it. Come on, it’ll be fun,” Santana says, singsonging the last word as she snatches the bottle from Quinn’s lax grip. Her throat bobs as she downs the last of the liquor, eyes screwed shut. Quinn watches intently, feeling her resolve slip away with every gulp. She really is a sucker for this girl. “Fuck, I hate vodka.”

“No one said you had to drink it,” she huffs, slightly annoyed that there is no longer any alcohol to drown her sorrows in. Well, it’s not technically sorrow, but the bottle itself was keeping her hands and mouth busy and now that it’s gone, she feels herself gravitating towards her roommate unconsciously. What is she, magnetic?

“So I was supposed to let you party all alone? Listen, I’m practically a professional at this shit. Do you know how many heartbreaks Brittany and I have collectively gone through? Tons, Q, fuckin’ tons. Britt probably can’t even count that high and she’s a mathematical genius. My hair’s pretty much all dead from bleaching. I’m a hot blonde, but damn. Weaves are expensive.”

Reluctantly, she asks, “How many steps are there in total?”

Santana taps her chin with the now empty bottle. “Five, give or take.”

“What’s the first one?”

“You’re already doing it, babe. Step one: get fucked up beyond repair.”

Quinn hiccups. “Hot pink, though?”

“Trust me. You’re gonna look straight-up smokin’ when I’m done with you.”

The last crumbs of her desperate attempts at rationalization fall through her drunken fingers as she looks between the vodka bottle, the hair dye, and Santana’s gorgeous, unrelenting smile.

“I’m gonna stab you if this turns out horribly, Lopez.”

Santana winks and it sends a flare of liquid heat rushing through her lower half. No sex fucking _sucks_. She knows her hymen, like, logically, won’t grow back or whatever, but it really feels like it might.

So her roommate may be a little daft right now. That’s fine. She’ll come to her senses, she thinks, sooner or later. Hopefully when Quinn’s a bit more lucid.

Any moment now.

* * *

Quinn catches sight of her reflection when she wakes up and full-on screams.

A lethargic, “There better be a fucking fire, Fabray,” comes from the other side of their bed.

(That’s right— _their_ bed. Because Santana had the awesome idea of squishing their twin XLs together, which earned them a write-up from their RA during the last round of room inspections. It’s not really against the rules, but Santana also had the awesome idea of sleeping with their RA during week two, so she cited ‘fire hazard’ as the reason. Bitch.

It didn’t really bother Quinn, eventually, because their trip to IKEA to buy bigger sheets felt nice and oddly domestic. So she’s in love with a woman. Doesn’t impede her deep-seated desire of domesticity. Especially the part where they couldn’t agree on anything for forty-five minutes. In the end, they settled for Quinn’s choice of some ridiculously high-thread count set with embroidered flowers, even though Santana claimed it was “too queer” even by her own standards. But Quinn gave her best puppy dog eyes and Santana rolled hers and handed her card over.)

“San!” she tries again, gazing at the mirror intently.

Her roommate cracks an eye open, seemingly to check if the room is indeed in a state of emergency, before tapping on the screen of her phone. “It is goddamn seven in the morning, Quinn,” she groans. “You need to shut your beautiful mouth before I shut it for you.”

Maybe Santana will finally break her newly avowed abstinence. You know, if Quinn gives her the right incentive.

As seductively as she can at ‘goddamn seven in the morning’, slightly hungover and still reeling from the bombshell that is her new bright pink hair, Quinn licks her lips and arches an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do to me?”

Santana smothers her with a pillow.

* * *

Step three of Santana’s master plan has something to do with the fact that there is a kitten in their dorm room.

It’s probably a newborn or something. Just so, so tiny. Like, ‘fits in the palm of your hand’ tiny. Quinn doesn’t know what type of cat it is, and she doubts Santana does either, but she makes a mental note to ask Brittany, who she has heard on more than one occasion profess her love for them.

Maybe not. The kitten shouldn’t even be in the room right now. Residence halls have a strict ‘no pets’ policy and they’re on thin ice as it is with the RA. Santana really, really needs to learn to keep it in her pants. If she had a nickel for every death glare she’s received since word got out about their unofficial relationship, she’d have enough money to upgrade to a better meal plan. For the decade. Operating word being “unofficial”, which like—ugh. Seriously.

It’s getting harder every day to remind herself that they’re not dating for a reason. Particularly because Santana’s opted out of her heinously skin-tight dresses today, and she’s wearing another one of Quinn’s vintage tees, and really, it shouldn’t be as sexy as it is.

Anyway. If it swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, they’re in a relationship.

Cat or no cat, she’s starting to feel exceptionally guilty. She’s not even heartbroken anymore, much less heartbroken over Sam like Santana thinks she is, but her roommate’s showering her with so much affection and Quinn can’t bear to tell the truth. Sure, she’s relatively peeved that her roommate’s steadfastly adhering to their ‘take it slow’ rule, mostly because Santana’s been withholding sex in a misguided attempt at being respectful, but it’s not as if she’s gonna spill about that either.

(It’s only been a few days. Quinn once went a year without it. This is nothing, nothing at all.

The whole ‘MacGyvered bed situation’, regardless of how amazing the idea seemed at the time, isn’t helping either. Without a space of her own, without a space to properly masturbate, Quinn finds herself a wealth of sexual frustration.

Google Calendar shows a shocking lack of dates and Santana’s cuddled into Quinn’s side every night, so the only thing keeping her from spontaneously combusting is the fact that, no matter how much she herself is struggling, this voluntary celibacy must be ten times worse for her roommate.

It’d be sweet if it wasn’t painstakingly wearing away at her patience. Santana must really love her to keep her rampant libido in check like this.)

Especially since her roommate tells her she named the kitten Leonardo da Caprio—a thoughtful amalgamation of Quinn’s childhood crush and favorite Renaissance artist—explaining that Quinn needed to find something else to keep herself busy during her downtime now that the man-child was gone. If there wasn’t a hint of a smug smile spreading across Santana’s lips as she carefully hands Leonardo over, Quinn would think she was genuinely sorry that Sam was out of the picture.

“Santana, you know fully well pets are not allowed in the dorms. Besides, I have you. And you’re a handful.”

“No problem. I’ll take him back to the slaughterhouse.”

Quinn squeaks and rushes to cover Leonardo’s ears. “You can’t say those things in front of him.”

Okay, fine, he’s kind of cute. She sighs to herself. Upon further inspection, he’s actually really cute. Leonardo’s mostly orange but has little white paws and grey eyes. He doesn’t seem to be able to walk quite right, still a bit wobbly on his feet, and Quinn’s not going to send him back to the pound or wherever Santana managed to procure him from. She’s not heartless.

Grinning like a maniac, Santana first pumps in victory. “So we’re keeping him, then?”

“Yes, we’re keeping him,” she hisses, before turning her attention back to the kitten. “Sorry the evil lesbian was trying to sentence you to death.”

“But the rules—” Santana begins, mockingly, crossing her arms.

“ _Fuck_ the rules, Lopez.”

“My, my. Got a mouth on you.”

“You better start looking for pet-friendly apartments in Westwood.”

That reasonable part of her knows the expenses will be through the fucking roof. A deposit, a pet fee, no dining halls. Santana’s upper-class lifestyle will no doubt pick a place that’s way out of Quinn’s budget. She’s going to need to double up on shifts, eat nothing but Top Ramen, and possibly take out a loan, because there’s no way her parents are going to fund this wayward behavior.

The news of her breakup with Sam already sent her mother into a full-fledged crisis, claiming that her only unwed daughter (she’s _twenty_ , mind you) was going to be a spinster. She had to call Frannie to ensure she didn’t legitimately sign Quinn up for Christian Mingle like she said she would.

“You wanna live with me for another quarter? We barely lasted this one, Q.”

Quinn nuzzles her face into Leonardo’s soft fur. “Better than finding someone new to go down on me on a semi-regular basis. Current circumstances painfully excluded,” she mutters low enough that Santana doesn’t catch it.

“Can’t argue with that,” her roommate says before frowning. “Wait, where are we gonna find a place to live on such short notice?”

“Oh please, if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the quarter, it’s that Santana Lopez _always_ gets what she wants.” She smiles wickedly before continuing, “Except in the case of one Holly Holliday.”

“Bitch! You promised to never bring that up again!” she whines. Quinn just shrugs and looks at her pointedly. “Ugh, fine. I’ll make some calls.”

* * *

In a wholly expected turn of events, step four is your classic “post-breakup retail therapy”. Quinn’s in desperate need to match her wardrobe with her current look. Hot pink clashes with those uber-Christian babydoll dresses. Quinn’s never truly rebelled and she thinks now is an appropriate time to do so. She doesn’t half-ass things, so why not go all out? Perhaps leather and a studded belt and distressed jeans, or, she snorts, even flannel to go with her newfound sexuality. The possibilities are endless.

(The image of her showing up to the Fabrays’ annual Fourth of July cabin trip looking like everything her parents warned her about is enough incentive for her to pick up extra shifts. The look on her father’s face will be priceless. Her mother might faint. She’ll sit through a lecture or five on how liberal California is turning their little Lucy into a she-devil. Worth it, though. The cardigans were getting itchy.)

What is unexpected, however, is the fact that Santana extends an invite to all the girls in the group chat to some sort of flea market. The chat’s incredibly active, much to Santana’s dismay, because “For someone as freakishly small as Rachel fucking Berry, she sure doesn’t know how to keep her texts short”.

All mouths drop when a shiny black G-Wagon rolls up to the front of the dorms. The courtyard’s abuzz with questions from various onlookers, attempting to suss out which A-lister is visiting campus randomly in the middle of the day.

The tinted black window slowly descends as some members of the audience shuffle around, pulling their phones out to capture a glimpse of whomever’s inside. The only thing stopping Quinn from doing the same is the fact that Santana’s nowhere to be found, as per usual, and she cranes her neck past the mass of people in order to search for her chronically late roommate. How she fell in love with someone so… unpunctual… cannot be explained. She messages Puck in the meantime, who is currently cat sitting (and has given himself the title of "Punkle", a portmanteau of Puck and Uncle), demanding that he send updates on Leonardo every hour on the hour. If even so much as a hair is out of place when they return, Santana will string him up by the ankles.

“Get in losers, we’re going shopping,” a familiar voice calls out from the driver's seat. There’s a collective groan from the crowd as they realize it’s _just_ Santana Lopez. If Quinn is noticeably more thrilled that it is indeed _just_ Santana Lopez, rather than some celebrity she probably won't be able to place, so be it.

“What the hell, San! You have a car? We rented one for Joshua Tree! What was the point!? And you made us take the Metro everywhere, you absolute bitch,” Quinn rapid-fire complains.

“It was in the shop at the time.”

Brittany pipes up with a “Yeah, ‘cause she hit a fire hydrant.”

(Which should have been the first indication not to get in.)

“Anyway, Big Poppa over here,” she gestures toward the car, “gets a solid thirteen miles to the gallon. She’s trying to save the planet, right?”

“Uh, yeah. And Q, you get hard-ons for Priuses,” Santana says, and fine, she’s right. Sue her for wanting to be environmentally-conscious. “Do you know how much UCLA parking is?”

“Surely much cheaper than this gas-guzzler,” Rachel mumbles. Santana threatens to strap her to the roof rack.

“San, your parents sprung for the third row for a reason,” Brittany says, taking pity on Rachel, who is now looking at Quinn, the fear of God reflected in her wide, brown eyes. “We do not treat our friends like surfboards.”

“One more word, Papa Smurf, and you're getting left behind.”

(The second indication is that Quinn’s stomach lurches just as hard as the stop-and-go driving and she almost tells Santana to pull the fuck over. But she’s afraid if she opens her mouth she’ll straight-up puke, so she seals her lips and grips the center console so hard her knuckles go white.)

The smell of burning rubber permeates the air as Santana hauls into a parking spot. Rachel and Tina have paled, Quinn and Mercedes are _thisclose_ to vomiting, and the only one unaffected is Brittany, who keeps chattering away about equations or something. Quinn lost her around the time she mentioned “trying to find a Euler brick whose face diagonal is also an integer” and how a “Euler brick is a cuboid that possesses integer edges _A_ , which is greater than _B_ , which is greater than _C_ and face diagonals _DAB_ , _DAC_ , and _DBC_ ”. It also didn’t help that Brittany explained it in terms of the shape of her cat Lord Tubbington, because literally—what the fuck?

With a shaky exhale, Tina stutters, “I think we should all take the Metro next time.”

“Drama queens, all of you. I hit one curb.”

Quinn lays a gentle hand on Santana’s shoulder. “Honey, you also ran two reds and almost committed a hit and run.”

“Did you die though?”

“No but—” Rachel begins.

“But did you _die_?”

With all the enthusiasm of a ten-week-old puppy, Brittany hops out and offers a steady arm to Mercedes, who clambers out next, hands on her knees.

“Lopez, what the hell kind of bougie flea market is this? I thought you were from Lincoln Heights.”

Quinn glances around and she has to agree; this is the whitest thing she’s ever been to. And she’s from Ohio. It’s the Coachella of flea markets, filled to the brim with Instagram influencers and pseudo-hipsters and dogs. So many dogs.

“Lincoln Heights _Adjacent_ , actually,” Santana corrects, touching up her lipstick in the mirror before flipping the visor back and stepping out as well. Tina and Rachel follow suit as soon as color returns to their faces.

“I can’t believe you had us all believing you were some tough chick when you’re actually from the gentrified side,” Tina says.

“You hoes know my dad’s a fucking doctor.”

Mercedes spins and points to Quinn. “You, on the other hand, absolutely belong here. Get it girl, with your pink hair and shit. I see you.”

Quinn fiddles with the hem of her shirt, a white cutoff tank she borrowed from Santana. She might have donated her current closet without realizing that the repercussions of her actions had her bereft of anything worthy of a trip to an LA flea market. Gone were the pastels and the floral prints, and all she had left were a few formal pieces and a vegan leather jacket she borrowed from Rachel last week, when the temperature dropped to an uncharacteristic seventy degrees, who insisted she keep it because it looked better on Quinn than it did her.

“Yeah, Q!” Brittany agrees wholeheartedly, “I forgot to tell you before, mostly because I didn't recognize you until Tina called your name, but you’ve got this, like, effortlessly cool ingénue thing that really works for you. Santana, you have to get your ass in gear and get _that_ ass.”

Santana casts her best friend a warning look, but Quinn throws her head back and laughs. “Thanks, Britt.”

“For sure,” she says and then somehow links all their arms together, pulling them towards the entrance. “Come on!”

* * *

Regardless of the sheer Los Angelesness of it all, they all have a solid time.

They’ve split up; Rachel separated as soon as she saw a man selling Himalayan rock salt lamps, Mercedes and Tina have headed off to the food stalls, and Brittany, with her near-clinical levels of energy, bounded towards the funky handmade hat stand the moment they paid admission.

A warm hand slides into hers, locking their fingers tight, and Santana claims that this place is a goddamn zoo and it’s way too easy to get lost. Quinn gives her a small smile and squeezes. They walk down the seemingly endless rows, arms swinging languidly between them, pausing intermittently to browse succulents and records and the million stalls dedicated solely to denim.

Quinn picks up a dark wash jacket because Santana’s “Holy shit, Q!” was more than convincing enough.

Her roommate haggles a vendor for a single-line portrait of a nude woman, slashing the asking price in half. Santana says that it kind of resembles Quinn, and she honest to God giggles because it’s the most lesbian thing she’s ever heard.

Quinn spots a jewelry stand about a hundred feet down and kisses Santana on the cheek, telling her she’ll be right back. Eyeing her warily, she waits until Santana’s mid-conversation with a woman selling antique film cameras before she quickly ducks into the stand. The man asks if she’s looking for anything in particular and she lifts her left hand up, asking if he has anything similar. He gives her a broad smile, and tells her that he remembers that ring, and how he pretty much lost money selling it to an intimidatingly gorgeous Latina, but she was so relentless and so enamored that he caved.

Quinn laughs. “Yeah that’s my um… my roommate.” Roommate doesn’t quite encompass her feelings, but it’ll do for now.

He selects a silver band with a tiny sun, and—it’s perfect. She pays the full price and throws in an extra ten as a tip, apologizing profusely for Santana’s behavior. She tucks the tiny paper bag into her jacket pocket and heads back.

Santana immediately spots her and throws her arms around Quinn’s neck.

“It’s been like, six minutes, San," Quinn says pointedly, but returns the hug with equal amounts of enthusiasm. The lack of true skin-on-skin contact is beginning to impede her rationale, so she's taking all she can get.

Santana pouts. “Whatever. How do we feel about these?” she asks, pointing to the large tortoiseshell cat-eye frames she’s trying on.

“I like them,” she replies, and hands her card over to the vendor slyly when Santana checks herself out in the mirror again. “They suit you.”

“How much?” she inquires, still looking at her reflection.

“Your girlfriend got it.”

Santana tears her gaze away and looks at Quinn incredulously. “Q, you didn’t.”

She smiles sheepishly, noticing Santana’s failure to correct him. “Didn’t need you berating another salesman this early in the morning.”

“Bargain hunting is a ruthless endeavor, baby, and I always come out on top.”

Something kindles low in her stomach and she feels a strong urge to kiss her roommate; primarily due to those sunglasses looking really good on her (and a tiny bit because she’s now thinking about Santana on top). But also because she slips her hand into her pocket, fingers toying with the little paper.

Quinn flips the frames up and wraps a hand around Santana’s neck, bringing their lips together. If only week zero Quinn Fabray could see her now, publicly making out with her female roommate, in the middle of a crowded flea market. She’s really come a long way, if she can say so herself.

“What was that for?” Santana asks when they finally separate, swiping her tongue across her lower lip.

“Those sunglasses are doing it for me.”

Santana leans in again, and Quinn’s so desperately ready to— 

“Quinn! Santana! Where are you guys!?” Rachel’s voice carries over the rows. A flock of birds takes flight from a nearby tree. Damn, can that girl project.

Santana’s gearing up to fire back something nasty, most likely a scathing comment that has to do with the size of Rachel’s nose, but Quinn drops her voice low and whispers into her ear. “Be nice, baby. And I’ll kiss you again as soon as we’re alone. With tongue.”

It’s dangerous, this game she’s playing. Quinn watched as her roommate’s expression morphs into one of pure arousal and the knowledge of both Rachel’s incoming presence and their celibacy are the only things stopping her from dragging Santana back to the car and indulging in what Quinn’s pretty sure will be a felony.

“We’re over here!” Santana calls out with a diabolical smile, mock enthusiasm dripping from her words. It takes no time for their friend to appear, and so she follows with, “Rachel, lovely to see you again. Did you find anything good?”

Rachel’s reply is a hesitant, “Um… yes.”

“Succulents—great choice,” Santana says, rifling through her purchases. “Very eco-friendly.”

Worried eyes meet hers, but Quinn only smiles. “Uh, thank you,” Rachel says, gingerly.

“Vinyls too? Etta James, classic. Barbra, duh. And, oh shit! Is that John Coltrane’s _A Love Supreme_? I love this album. It’s a musical journey. Coltrane’s improvisations are, like, off-the-charts fucking baller.” Santana lights up as she pulls it out of the bag, holding it up as if it’s something holy, and Quinn knows her exuberance is sincere. Her roommate fucking loves jazz, it’s her worst-kept secret. “Gotta hand it to you, shorty, you’ve got a knack for picking out dope tunes.”

Rachel’s jaw drops. Quinn doesn’t blame her. After regaining her composure, she says, “Your musical knowledge is impressive, Santana.”

“We been knew.”

Their other friends find them soon after, arms bogged down with the weight of several large shopping bags.

“We’re hungry, S,” Brittany moans as they draw near.

“There’s a burger place down the street. And yes, they have vegan options, Berry, we’re in Fairfax,” Santana offers with a sugar-coated smile, before Rachel even has to ask.

“You guys, I think Santana’s broken.”

All the genuine interest she showed is gone in a flash. Her roommate’s nostrils flare angrily and Quinn has to take the record back before Santana snaps it in half. “You _so_ owe me for this, Q. I expect the greatest mack sesh of all time when we get back,” she demands, joining Brittany who is already skipping ahead towards the exit. The crowd parts like Moses and the Red Sea as Santana stalks past, which is convenient, because it really started to look like a zoo in here.

“Yo, Rachel, what’d you do this time?” Tina asks.

“I don’t—I don’t even know. One second we were talking about the genius that is Mr. John Coltrane, and the next she wants to slice my head clean off. I was beginning to think it was the start of a wonderful friendship,” she mutters dejectedly, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t worry about Santana. She gets hangry,” Quinn says simply, linking arms with Rachel and following the clear-cut path through the masses. “I’m sure you two will be friends in no time.”

Right on cue, her roommate spins on her heel of her stilettos and fires Rachel the iciest death glare Quinn’s seen in a minute. Even Quinn herself has to shiver. “I know you’re not tryna take advantage of Q right now. She recently got out of a relationship. Besides, she’s way out of your league. Hell, you aren’t even playing the same sport. Pitiful, really. _Ándale_ , bitch, or I’ll kick your pint-sized ass all the way to the parking lot.”

Rachel hurriedly untangles their arms and scampers away, hiding behind Mercedes and effectively putting a sizable distance between her and the truly terrifying anger of her roommate. Mercedes rolls her eyes and tugs the cowering girl along toward the exit.

Lazily, Quinn sighs, and says, “There go your make out privileges. That was super unnecessary.”

“But she—”

“But nothing, Santana. Rachel is one of my best friends, she wasn’t trying anything. I don’t put up a fuss every time you and Britt hold hands.”

“That’s different! Neither of us have just gotten broken up with. And ever since Finn and her split, once again, I can smell the desperation rolling off her in goddamn waves. It’s suffocating. I’m about to call the lumbering giant right now and tell him to pick her ass up ‘cause there’s no way I’ll be able to breathe, let alone drive, with her loneliness fogging up the windows.”

“Santana,” she warns, lowly. “That’s enough.”

“Shit, okay. I’ll lay off.”

“Thank you. Now, be good, and we’ll see if you’ll earn those privileges back.”

Santana eyes darken for a fraction of a second before they narrow. “How am I gonna do that? There’s only so much I can put up with, you know.”

“You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“I’ll let her have the AUX cord in the car, since we know now she does have decidedly good taste for an overgrown troll,” she begins, but Quinn looks at her expectantly. “And I’ll buy her a damn burger. With the works.”

“And?” Quinn pushes.

“Fries and a vegan milkshake?” she says, rubbing her temples. “Fine, I’ll say sorry. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic.”

* * *

A slip of paper is placed into the pocket of her new jacket, with a casual “Call me, cutie,” tossed over a relatively pretty girl’s shoulder. Just, not pretty enough, and apparently Santana knows it as well.

“I’m not worried. I mean, have you _seen_ me?” her roommate dismisses after Quinn quirks a single eyebrow at her.

By the time another offer of drinks comes (bringing the total to four; this number is written on her forearm in permanent marker by a decidedly much more attractive woman) followed by Quinn’s exasperated claim of “What the hell is going on?” Santana nearly bites the head off her most recent suitor. Santana shoots the woman her dirtiest look until she skulks away slowly, hands up in defeat. Her tone is laced with something incredibly strange, and it takes a moment before Quinn realizes it's riddled with an undercurrent of pure, unadulterated jealousy.

It should definitely not be as hot as it is. But the heart wants what it wants. And apparently Quinn’s heart really wants a jealous, protective Santana.

Honestly? It’s payback for all the time Quinn had to endure Santana constantly getting asked out while they were at dinner, or on their way to class, or fuck, even in the dorm bathrooms, for Christ’s sake.

“You’re the poster child of baby gays, Q. Like a little unicorn with the hair, the denim, and the unironically layered necklaces,” Brittany points out, cataloguing her outfit.

“I’m not even gay.”

“What is this, open fucking season? We’re never coming back here again,” Santana says, taking hold of Quinn’s right hand. It’s such a casual display of intimacy, though her cheeks heat up regardless. Especially as a mother glares at them and covers her child’s ears. “Oh, bite me, lady. Your kid’s, like, twelve. I can guarantee he hears worse shit than this on the playground.”

Ever the mediator, Rachel rushes to apologize.

Santana’s still seething by the time they get to the car, hand squeezing Quinn’s so hard she’s quickly growing concerned about the potential rearranging of her metacarpal structure. Also, the potential of some innocent woman getting lugged out in a body bag, with the rate Santana’s jaw is working.

Obviously, Quinn wanted to wait to do this, away from the prying eyes of their ridiculously nosy neighbors, but Santana’s gaze flicks back and forth between Quinn’s jacket pocket and her inked hand like she’s the umpire of the most intense tennis match of all time. So she pulls Santana aside, away from their friends’ immediate earshot, and brings their faces close together.

“Hey, you know you don’t have to worry about any of those girls, right?”

Santana’s response is swift and glaringly defensive, topped with that signature Lopez nervous nail-chipping. “Like I said: I’m not worried.”

“San, I’m two seconds away from permanent nerve damage,” she tries to joke.

“Oh, shit. Sorry,” Santana says, letting go immediately. Quinn tries not to wince as the blood recirculates. “Look, I know I’m just your roommate. So you’re definitely entitled to… go out with other people. And that last girl could be, like, Zoë Kravitz’s sister or something. You two would make a cute lesbian power couple,” she grinds out.

Quinn has to stop herself from reflexively rolling her eyes at Santana’s mind-numbing obliviousness. “Be that as it may,” she begins, because _that’s_ who that girl looked like, “I don’t care about other people.”

The unspoken ‘I care about _you_ ’ hangs in the air. Quinn’s not going to say it out loud—partially because her heart is already nervously pitter-pattering trying to work up courage, partially because she’s, like, ninety percent sure Santana already knows. Santana’s giving her the most disarming sort of look, her sneer slipping into a lopsided smile.

“I got something for you,” Quinn says, fumbling with the small paper bag in her pocket. “It’s nothing big, but—well, you’ll see. And if it doesn’t make you believe me I suppose nothing will.”

Big, brown, vulnerable eyes look up into hers. “What is it?”

Quinn breathes deep, and god, she wishes they were in the privacy of their own dorm like she had originally planned. Whatever, no time like the present. She slides the dainty ring onto Santana’s finger and somehow those brown, vulnerable eyes get even _bigger_.

“Quinn,” Santana exhales in such a way that she changes her mind; she’s definitely one hundred percent sure now that her roommate knows. “I love it. It—it looks like yours.” Her voice is the tiniest Quinn’s ever heard it and she almost can’t bear to deal with it.

“Yeah, got it from the same guy. He remembers you.”

“Not surprised, I’m extremely memorable,” Santana gloats. Quinn kisses her just to shut her up.

There’s a “So much for being not a lesbian, they’re like one flannel away from renting a U-Haul,” from Tina and a “Yeah, and they must know UCLA’s too cheap to soundproof the walls. You know I bought noise-cancelling headphones because of them? Remind me to send Santana the invoice,” from Mercedes.

“We can hear you,” Santana says against Quinn’s lips. Quinn’s beginning to think exhibitionism might not be so bad after all, because Santana’s arms are wrapping around her waist and lifting her an inch off the ground.

Someone clears their throat one, twice, and finally three whole times; each time getting progressively over-the-top. “All right, that’s enough, you two. Separate now. We’re starving,” Mercedes calls out. “Santana, I’m glad you stopped being such a scrappy little bitch but you promised burgers.”

“San’s almost as bad as Q is when it comes to promises.”

Santana finally pulls away, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Why does Brittany know that?”

The memory of wrongful accusations and distasteful words and nakedness sprints through her mind. Quinn cringes but manages a feeble, “I don’t know.”

“Remember? Like, when I almost knocked you out.”

“No, Brittany, I most certainly do _not_ remember.” Quinn’s eyes are pleading, hoping she gets the hint. She doesn’t, because Brittany’s just as hot as she is clueless sometimes. And she’s _hot_. Quinn is finally at a point in her life where she can readily acknowledge the utter beauty of women, in a more than solely physical appreciation sort of way.

“You know, when you saw my,” the next part comes as a whisper, “boobs.”

“Say what now?”

“Santana, I think we’ve had enough jealousy today to last a lifetime.”

“Fine. Just know, she’s gonna spill sooner or later. Right, B?” Brittany nods rapidly, then winks.

They walk the whole ten steps back to rejoin the group with besotted smiles plastered on their faces. Brittany gives them two thumbs up.

Quinn sticks her hand out when they get to the car, wiggling her fingers, and everyone (except Britt) exhales a collective sigh of relief when Santana slams the keys into her open palm. She mutters under her breath in seriously broken Spanglish as she slides into the passenger seat. Quinn’s been around long enough to discern bits like “ungrateful whores” and “never inviting them out ever again” and “especially the fucking _hobbit_ ”.

Silently, Quinn threads their fingers together and presses her lips to the new ring, just as Santana did all those weeks ago.

* * *

What had started as the fifth and final step (“the best way to get over someone is to get under someone, Fabray”) turns into “congratulations on acing your finals” sex, which then turns into something much more because her roommate could never pass up a three for one special.

Santana, the gallant lesbian that she is, officially asked Quinn out earlier that night, prior to the sex, with a post-it reading ‘ _you + me = date tonight?_ _love, san’_ that her roommate handed to her with the shyest smile in the world. Quinn got all sorts of dolled up because, from what she’s heard through the collegiate grapevine, a Santana Lopez date consists of fine Italian dining followed by a trip to whatever up-and-coming club is most popular that month.

Really, Quinn should have expected that Santana wouldn’t treat her like any other woman. Because they went _bowling_.

They were the best dressed at the bowling alley by far, but Quinn didn’t even have it in her to be embarrassed. It was the best date she’s ever been on and she didn’t even care that the silk of her brand-new dress ended up stained with grease from the truly obscene amounts of french fries they shared. Didn’t care that she’d have to get it dry-cleaned. Didn’t care that dry-cleaning costs far too much for a student on a limited budget.

So when Santana pulls her mouth from between her legs, Quinn nearly yanks her weave out because, what the hell? It’s finally, finally fucking happening—Santana’s gratefully rescinded their self-imposed celibacy—and she _stops_? Right as Quinn’s zero point two seconds away from the mother of all orgasms?

The nerve of this girl, honestly. If Quinn wasn’t already head over heels.

“Fuckin’ ouch, Quinn,” Santana says, rubbing at the sore spot on her head. Quinn bucks her hips up eagerly and impatiently, and Santana resumes stroking with her fingers, albeit far, far too slowly. “Hear me out. You know I’m no good with relationships or whatever. Well, technically Britt’s the only person I’ve been with so it’s not like I have too much experience in that exact area—”

“Santana, where are you going with this?” It’s hard to concentrate because she’s on the verge of her third orgasm; one for each A. She wills herself to focus because this feels… big.

Adjusting herself on the desk—yes, the desk, because now that Quinn was finally getting some action, she didn’t have the patience to wait until they made it to a bed—she sighs and her eyes flutter open. She notes that it’s going to be such a hassle to rearrange her school supplies now that they’re scattered all around the floor. Several of her paperbacks have fallen to their doom and the shelf is slightly askew from where Santana’s been pushing Quinn’s bare body into it.

It’s not the most comfortable position, but she’s making do.

“I’m just,” Santana starts, carefully, as if she’s practicing her words in her head before they come out, “seeing if there’s a small possibility that you’d like me to stop, you know, fucking other people. Permanently.”

“Why would I tell _you_ to stop sleeping around? I’m not your keeper.”

(Not that Santana’s really sleeping around anyway, the bookshelf bears a consistent forty tick marks. Neither is Quinn, but that was never really an issue to begin with.)

“You could be. If you wanted to,” Santana whispers, pausing her ministrations entirely.

Quinn sits all the way up and runs a shaky hand through her hair. The sex haze lifts and realization hits her in the face like a battering ram. But softly. And sort of delicately. And lovingly.

“Aw, baby. Are you asking me in a weird, roundabout way to be exclusive?”

“Maybe.” Quinn looks at her expectantly. “Fine, yes, ugh. I am,” Santana concedes.

“I hope you know you personally set the feminist movement back like, fifty years with that. You’re a terrible women’s studies major.”

Dark eyes are cast downward as Santana mumbles, “Shut up, Q.”

“That’s no way to talk to your new girlfriend.”

Santana looks up, tears collecting on her lower lids. “Wait. Is that a yes? Are you saying yes?”

“Of course I’m saying yes, you dramatic bitch. Sometimes I think you should switch to my major. It honestly took you long enough. Remind me to collect my winnings.”

“What… winnings?”

“We all had a pool going to see when you’d buck up andask me to be your girlfriend.”

Narrowing her eyes dangerously, Santana asks, “Who is this ‘we’ you speak of?”

“You know—me, Mercedes, Britt, Puck, Finn, Rachel, Tina, Mike.”

Santana slaps her arm. “You dick! That’s literally everyone we know!”

“Again, not the best way to start this relationship. And quit your whining, I made us four hundred dollars. I’m taking you out to dinner tonight to celebrate.”

“I fucking love you, Quinn Fabray,” she says, those big brown eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

Her heart absolutely stops beating. It seizes in her chest before kick starting anew, pounding away double-time at the admission. So it’s not the inherently romantic situation Quinn expected for their first _I love yous_ —Santana threw an unnecessary curse, there aren’t any candles or ridiculously over-the-top floral arrangements, Quinn’s beginning to shiver because wooden desks are not the best at heat conduction—but somehow, she couldn’t have asked for anything better.

Her smile is bright and unrestrained and her cheeks are starting to ache as she responds, “I love you too, you idiot.” And then, “You’re surprisingly sappy for someone so outwardly frightening.”

“Excuse me? I’ll show you sappy as I kick your ass into next week, baby.”

“Once again, I doubt that bodily harm is the best way to begin our relationship.”

“No take backs,” Santana says, smugly. “You agreed even before I showed you the pros and cons list.”

“You—what—you made a pros and cons list?” Quinn didn’t know it was possible to fall further, but shit. Here she goes, spinning and tumbling in the most exhilarating free-fall of her life.

“Yeah. I know how you love your little internal debates, so I came prepared. Pros: you’re hot, I’m hot, and we’re extremely sexually compatible. Exhibit A,” she says, gesturing to the wetness that is now slicking the surface of the desk. Quinn flushes a deep red and attempts to close her legs in nervousness but Santana steps in between them, preventing her from doing so.

Clearing her throat, Quinn follows up with, “And the cons?”

“Not applicable.” When Quinn looks at her in disbelief, Santana rolls her eyes and goes, “What? I never said the list was any good. Pro number three was my main focal point.”

And it is, because as it turns out, being Santana Lopez’s official girlfriend is a one-way ticket to the best and most prolonged orgasm of Quinn’s life. Santana throws in another one though, just for good measure.

* * *

They end up rooming together for the rest of their undergrad career, moving from apartment to apartment every eleven weeks like clockwork. It’s not without their fair share of arguments; Santana still doesn’t know how to put her clothes in the damn laundry basket and Quinn is still a tiny bit unhinged.

Pieces of furniture are no longer damaged, and Santana’s lifetime count stagnates at a solid 112.

Quinn nearly chokes on her own spit because “Are you kidding me, Santana, you’ve slept with one hundred and twelve _fucking_ women?” and Santana goes, “I didn’t even know you before sophomore year! You can’t hold me accountable for these actions!”

Coming out, officially, is a dreadfully painful affair. Though her girlfriend isn’t pressuring her—she’d never pressure her to do anything—Quinn feels the need to update her parents on this new development in her life. She’s happy, so unambiguously happy, and they should be happy for her too.

There are screams and slurs and Santana holds her as she cries.

Unsurprisingly, she’s ex-communicated from her mother and father’s church and Frannie stops returning her calls. But in the end, Quinn finds it doesn’t truly matter, because her friends are incredible and Santana’s beyond that and she cuts all ties with her blood family in favor of this new, inclusive, accepting one.

Church was weighing her down, anyway.

Santana gets accepted to UCLA’s women’s studies PhD program and then Quinn catches her big break weeks after graduation. It’s a role for a “twenty-something lesbian” for HBO’s new primetime dramedy, and it’s all kinds of apt.

Her girlfriend’s all “Fuck being a stripper, why didn’t I think of becoming a trophy wife?” and Quinn’s halfway to throwing back a snide comment on how if anyone would be a trophy wife, it’d be _her_ , because her Santana still has over two-thirds of her trust fund leftover. And as the only child of a doctor in Los Angeles, said trust fund would allow them to pretty much retire within the next five or so years.

Moments later, however, Quinn’s mouth drops open because… _wife_? And Santana tries to retract way too quickly, but Quinn just says, “Well you already bought me a ring,” and Santana goes, “So? You bought me one too, bitch.”

They elope six months later, in Joshua Tree of all places, after Quinn wins her first SAG AFTRA for what Entertainment Tonight calls her “impeccable and extraordinary portrayal love and loss,” and Santana’s article “So You’re a Sexist: Issues with the Film Industry’s So-Called Gender Equality in the #MeToo Era” gets published in LA Magazine.

They pick Joshua Tree to rectify their past not-so-great memory of the last time they were in this desert. As the sun sets on that very same canyon, and her bride looks absolutely stunning in her pale green off-the-shoulder gown, Quinn decides that they must spend every anniversary in a national park.

Flushed with adoration and that wedding glow, Santana vehemently agrees before they even walk down the makeshift aisle. Even though she still claims to hate the outdoors. God, Quinn thinks, if they weren’t already half an hour from saying their _I dos_ , she’d marry her on the spot.

Brittany gets ordained online and jokes about how she always thought she and Santana would end up at the altar together, though never in this capacity, and Santana rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Quinn laughs and Brittany goes on about how if it wasn’t her, Quinn would be her very first choice. Then Santana says something about loving Quinn more than “the sun, the moon, and all the stars” while fiddling with their rings—their _new_ rings, which have galaxies engraved into them—and Quinn tears up.

Santana full-on bawls during the vows though because Quinn reads selections from a book that contains every single one of Santana’s post-its, pages and pages and pages of yellow notes. Turns out Tina’s overemotional sentimentality and Rachel’s whimsical fondness for arts and crafts do have their merits.

A gift basket arrives on their doorstep a few months later, from her mother and her sister, with a note that is both a sincere apology and a congratulations. Despite it being absolutely late for wedding presents, she accepts it gracefully and calls Frannie to thank them. Later, Quinn learns Russell has run away with some “tattooed freak” and Judy has since kicked him out. Good riddance.

Her wife (god, she’ll never tire of saying that) gives her the biggest, tightest hug as she reads the card. It’s a simple act, but it’s everything.

Leonardo lives his best life as the most popular cat model to “The Women Who Live in a Greenhouse”, a title bestowed upon them as their Silver Lake home graced the cover of Architectural Digest. Santana has a biweekly arrangement with a local florist, and has since moved on from flowers to plants that now cover every available expanse of the house, because “they’re more environmentally and financially responsible, babe”.

They’re vegan now thanks to Rachel, and whatever, they have memberships to Equinox—Santana does cardio barre and Quinn, predictably, boxes—and Mercedes makes fun of how LA they’ve become. Most of their friends still live in the area and they get together every so often to catch up, when their schedules allow. They rotate between Silver Lake, the Valley (where Mike, Tina, and Puck live), and Santa Monica (where Brittany and Mercedes live) for dinners and game nights and award show watch parties. Rachel and Finn have since moved out to New York after Rachel, unsurprisingly, was offered a role as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl, a role she was definitely born to play, and the whole crew flies to the city for her opening night.

Quinn’s still not _gay_ , more like really into Santana. And Santana still gets more ass than anyone else on campus, it just so happens to be one ass, for the rest of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr @ gonegirlgang. this writing thing is kinda fun, so hit me with new ideas.


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